Childhood
by Pallas-Athena
Summary: Young Kyle Reese grows up in post-apocalyptic Los Angeles under the guidance of the human resistance's charismatic leader.
1. First Meetings

**Title: **Childhood  
**Summary: **Young Kyle Reese grows up in post-apocalyptic Los Angeles under the guidance of the human resistance's charismatic leader.  
**Rating: T **(violence, strong language)  
**Characters: **Kyle Reese, John Connor  
**Disclaimer: **It doesn't belong to me, duh.  
**Acknowledgements: **Huge thanks to my dear friend, beta reader, and supporter **obaona**. It was she who suggested I write this fic, giving me the prompts "Kyle/childhood." She was expecting a 2,000-word vignette, not the multi-chaptered fic this is turning out to be. I did a good deal of research on this fic about the future world of _The Terminator_. I found **Christopher T. Shields'** tech site (**Terminator 2029**) especially informative.  
** Authors Notes:** This fic will end up being around 12 or so chapters. Thanks for reading, feedback is always appreciated, and have fun …

* * *

"We got a live one here!" 

His head was throbbing violently, and the immense pain was focused mostly at his temples. He attempted to open his eyes, but immediately shut them again when his stomach offered a protest in the form of nausea.

He drew in a ragged breath, hoping that the motion would calm his raging insides, but the air was far from fresh – it reeked of smoke, fumes, blood, rotting flesh, and a number of other substances Kyle either wouldn't or couldn't identify. His lungs hurt as well: raw from the smoke, most likely, and his screams.

He felt the debris around him stir as a large weight came to rest near him. He could hear the motion as well as feel it, and was, therefore, not surprised when a warm hand – although still cooler than his own skin – found a way to his forehead.

Kyle opened his eyes, slowly this time, to see a man crouching before him. He was tall, but somewhat lanky, with dark hair and eyes, and the scars running down his face suggested factory labor rather than the ditches. Still, he had an odd familiarity to him, and it jogged a sense of recognition within Kyle.

"Dad?" Kyle asked uncertainly, testing the feeling the man inspired in him.

"Sorry, kid." The man's voice was naturally gruff, but, even in his state of confusion and pain, Kyle could tell that he was trying to be sympathetic. "We haven't found anybody else."

Kyle blinked a few times, trying to clear his head in light of the mistake; after all, the man looked nothing like his father and sounded even less so. The fog around his mind lifted momentarily, even if the pain did not decrease.

He attempted to sit up, to explore his surroundings, but the man placed a surprisingly gentle hand on his shoulder and pushed him back to the ground.

"Not the most comfortable place to lay, I know," the man admitted. "But you'd best stay still. The medics'll be here in a minute, and they'll check out your head."

Kyle swallowed roughly, antagonizing his already dry throat, and nodded slightly. He breathed deeply, despite the tightening in his lungs.

"Where am I?" he asked weakly, although he was already dreading the answer. "What happened?" The third most obvious question would be about his parents, but the man had already made it clear that he knew nothing about Kyle's father. His mother's location was also unlikely to be known.

"You're still at the camp," came the reply. "A few hundred feet or so from the barb." The man shifted his weight slightly, as if uncomfortable. "We received word that everybody here was undergoing termination. So we attacked."

"Are … are you with the resistance?" Kyle asked, barely able to retain his excitement. He had heard the rumors – who hadn't? – of a group of humans that were raiding the Skynet concentration camps, looking for people to join them in the fight against the machines. He attempted to rise, to offer whatever services he could, but the man's gentle grip on his shoulder hardened, as if reminding the boy to stay lying down.

"Yeah," the man said. "We weren't quick enough, though." He squeezed Kyle's shoulder lightly. "Sorry, son, but I'm afraid that most of the camp's gone. Looks like you're the only survivor. And we searched this whole place. You're lucky to be alive."

Well, 'lucky' was certainly a relative term. Most likely his parents were dead. His sisters, too. And perhaps everyone else he had ever known in his admittedly short life. The grief was a physical weight, baring hard onto his chest, crushing his lungs and shortening his breath. He bit his bottom lip to keep it from tumbling. Crying was a useless gesture; no amount of tears shed would ever bring anyone back or make the machines stop.

He sighed, releasing the emotions as best he could. He only hoped that his voice didn't shake when he spoke again.

"I'm really strong, sir, for my age, I mean," he said. "I'm fast, too. Real fast, even the foreman says so. I can fight. Let me fight, sir."

He looked into the man's eyes – not really dark, he noticed, but of some muted color – and waited for the expected rebuke. He was just a child, after all, and children weren't supposed to fight wars.

"You got spirit, kid. That's good," the man replied with something akin to a smile creeping onto his lips. "You'll need it, out here." The approval was there, but it wasn't a happy one, at least not for the man. He pushed his lips together into a thin line, dissolving the smile's hint. His face echoed some infinite sadness.

Instead of voicing his concern, however, he merely patted Kyle on the shoulder and rose to his feet. Kyle chanced a glance behind the man to see a few soldiers running towards them with a small stretcher.

Kyle returned his eyes back to the man, hoping to speak to him once more before he was carted off.

"You won't be disappointed in me, sir," he vowed. "I'll turn all those bastard machines back into the rubble they came from."

The man smiled, and it was almost genuine. "What's your name, kid?"

"Kyle!" Kyle responded energetically, so glad that someone wanted to know his name rather than his tracking number. "Ah, I mean Reese. Kyle Reese, sir." That was how adults introduced themselves, with a first and a last name. And he knew he was an adult now, since his parents were dead.

He expected the words to be met with a polite nod at best or vague disinterest at worst, but the man, in fact, gaped. His mouth hung slightly open and his eyes appeared to have widened.

The medics came and shuffled past the man, who was now utterly motionless, to help Kyle onto the stretcher. Kyle sat up, now that the man no longer had a grip on his shoulder, and awaited them. He winced as the ache formerly just centered around his head traced a path down his spine and radiated out towards his fingertips and toes.

"Careful there, boy, you've got a concussion," one of them advised while laying out the stretcher. Kyle nodded slightly as the other medic came around the side.

"One, two, three. Lift." He sucked in his breath as the medics placed him onto the stretcher. He was a light boy as it was, thin, he supposed, even in comparison to others at the camp, but he was unnerved by the ease at which the medics lifted him off the ground.

He fought the rolling of his stomach as he hazarded a glanced back at the man that had found him. The man was standing with his arms wrapped around his waist, looking almost … vulnerable … as he watched the proceedings.

"What's your name?" Kyle found himself asking as the medics began to walk back to the transport truck, which was little more than a loosely converted and armed Ford pickup.

"John." The word came out more as a mumble than a name and, if Kyle hadn't been listening so intently, he might have missed it. John looked down, distracted apparently, and avoided Kyle's gaze.

"This is it, General," one of the medics spoke. "We'll be headed back to basecamp once we load him up. Need a lift?"

To Kyle's disappointment, John shook his head. "No, there were rumors that there is a weapons cache here. We need to conduct further scans." He paused and looked straight up at Kyle. "Get some rest, kid."

"Sir," Kyle responded, secretly hoping John's command was the first of many future orders.

* * *

John Connor was not, by nature, a pacer. He tended to either sit and think or move in a meaningful manner towards any perceived problem or task. But here he paced, using up otherwise valuable energy. He couldn't help it, though; the boy lying before him had unwittingly seen to it that both John's mind and body received no rest today. 

Reese – or could he call him Kyle? – was currently sleeping, curled up on a dirty pile of rags in the corner of their medical barrack. Despite his makeshift bed, the boy appeared comfortable enough, and the bandages wrapped around his head and arm, to John's relief, were new and clean.

"Checking up on our little survivor, sir?" the bunker doctor asked, pausing his nightly rounds. At John's nod, the old man smiled. "Rare to see such a young one left alive, no doubt. You'd figure the machines would've gotten him sooner rather than later. You found him in the camp, you said?"

"In the rubble," John replied.

The doctor – a man who had held his schooling before Judgment Day and was currently reaching the end of his years as it was – struggled to mend those under his care with such limited supplies and struggled even harder to teach new medics in his stead. He had a caring heart, a rarity these days, and a good head. He leaned over and gave the boy's bandages a quick once over.

"I was a pediatrician, you know," the doctor spoke causally. "I loved kids, always have. Don't see many his age anymore, though. We've either got the tots born to the resistance girls or the teenagers born before the …" He sighed and cocked his head to the side. "I ought to be stitching this boy's head up after he fell off his bike or something. Not from a concussion grenade. A kid this age shouldn't be …"

"How old is he?" John interrupted, not caring to reminisce at the moment.

"I'd say ten, give or take."

"That old?" John frowned in contemplation. Reese looked no older than eight.

"Malnourished, thin little thing," the doctor said by way of answer. "But he was fed when it counted. Keep his health up and he ought to beef up real quick. Boy told me he wants to be a soldier." The doctor shrugged. "Well, he has the reflexes for it, at least."

John guessed that the doctor was referring to an earlier physical examination.

"You should rest up some," the doctor continued after standing and leaving Reese to his slumber. "Busy day tomorrow."

"Busy day always," John replied darkly.

"Heh, yes, it is," the old man grunted as he walked over to the next set of beds.

John was alone with Reese once again, and his body thus urged him to continue his insistent pacing. He willed himself to calm.

This day was bound to come. He had known it. He was destined to send Kyle Reese back in time to 1984 to stop a T-800 terminator from assassinating his mother. And to do that, he knew that he would have to eventually meet Reese and, as his mother had explained it, be his commanding officer for some period of time before he sent him back. He had to give him his mother's picture, make him memorize that stupid speech about time and fate, and whatever other cockamamie bullshit to ensure the past – or the future? – remained intact.

He had just assumed that Reese would be a little older when they first met. That they'd only served a few years together before Reese left. That he'd meet his father when the man was at least an adult …

But not this.

Not a ten year-old who just lost his parents and had mistaken his son for his father.

How was he even supposed to deal with him? What was he supposed to tell him? Certainly not the truth.

He may have been foolish, but he had honestly thought he still had at least a half decade to figure out what he was going to do, how he was going to act like the stoic bastard of a man that sent his own father to die.

John groaned. Even with his extensive knowledge of children, John mused inwardly, the doctor himself wouldn't have advice to offer in this situation.

The boy turned in his sleep and let out a content sigh, making John smile halfheartedly.

He had his chin. So odd to think about.

Well, John's childhood dream was always to get to know his father …


	2. The Bunker

Kyle let out a loud, "oomph," when the dog jumped on him and a near giddy, "hey," went it started licking his face. He pulled away from the excited animal before the bandages on his head began to peal off.

"She likes you. That's good," the doctor noted, looking up from the pile of mismatched supplies he was sorting through. "Guess you aren't a machine."

"Huh?" Confused, Kyle turned away from petting the dog.

"Dogs can detect the mini-HKs. Something about their smell," the doctor replied. "Connor thinks they'll be even more valuable later, but he hasn't said why."

"Connor?"

"Look, kiddo. If you're well enough to ask questions, you might as well make yourself useful. Get over here and help me sort this shit out."

Kyle nodded and pushed the dog off his lap. He got up slowly and had to grit his teeth against the sharp spell of pain and nausea. If the doctor said he was well enough to work, then he was well enough to work. Even if he wasn't, at least the task had the potential to keep his mind off of … well, the events that happened at the camp.

He bent down into a crouch next to the doctor, testing the strain on his sore legs.

"All right," the doctor told him. "I want the gauze in that bin, needles there, tape there, these pill packs here, and all the medical tools here." He was pointing to each individual bin systematically. "Nice enough for those boys to bring this stuff down here, but you'd think they could have sorted it first."

Kyle began to throw each of the items in its respective bin. The pile of supplies wasn't large – he estimated it would only take a few minutes to work though it – and very clearly wasn't nearly enough to help all the wounded that had passed through this ward since Kyle had woken up.

"Who's Connor?" he asked as he started organizing.

"You mean you don't know? He's the guy whose team bought you in. The grandpuba himself."

"John?"

"Well, I guess you're on a first name basis with the guy," the doctor said, looking up momentarily from the pile. Contemplating, he turned his attention back to a needle in his hand. The protective plastic seal was torn, but not completely broken. He tossed it in the bin. "Got quite the personality on him. I haven't seen one man be able to gather up this many survivors in one place before. And, trust me, I've seen it since the beginning."

"The resistance?" Kyle prompted. "He's the leader?" He couldn't have kept the awe out of his voice. "Wait. John Connor. He's _the_ John Connor?"

"How's your head, son? Everything's still working up there, right?" Despite the humor in the doctor's voice, his face hinted at his concern.

"Yeah," Kyle said, slightly embarrassed. "I just … John Connor. I didn't expect him to be here. I mean, in the same place I am. Didn't think I'd ever meet him, either."

"Well, he took a shining to you," the doctor replied. "Came in and checked up on you. Never seen him do anything quite like that before."

Kyle paused, dumbfound. John Connor finding him of interest? That didn't seem possible. He was nothing more than a war orphan, who, up until a day or so ago, had been scheduled for termination. There must have been hundreds of boys just like him.

"Damn it, dog, get down from there," the doctor hissed, breaking into Kyle's thoughts.

Kyle glanced up to see the German shepherd attempting to make a bed out of the rags he had been lying in previously.

"Is he yours, sir?" Kyle asked. He didn't have much experience with dogs, his family never having one itself, but he remembered seeing them rummaging through the garbage in the days before the Seekers had found them and put he and his family in the camp. His father had told him that they were once pets to some people – 'man's best friend,' he'd said. Kyle had longed to touch one, to feel the fur, which looked so much softer than most things in this dismal world, with the palm of his hand. They were wild, however, and his father warned against getting too close.

"Nah, and she's a she," the doctor answered. "Connor's, actually. She's set to have some pups soon, and Connor thinks that I'll know what to do about it."

The dog watched the exchange in listless boredom, unconcerned despite the growing malevolence in the doctor's stare.

"Speaking of what to do about things," the doctor continued, looking back at Kyle. "What are we going to do about you? You know, I could always use an extra man around here. Keep ya from having to go outside too much."

Kyle was barely able to keep the scowl off of his face. A medic? No way. "I wanna fight."

"So you keep saying." The doctor sighed. "Well, in that case, I'm sure one of the sergeants will come down and get you. I'll put in the word."

"No need, doc, already set up."

John Connor had appeared miraculously next to the med ward's makeshift threshold. Kyle blanched for a moment, hoping that the great man hadn't overheard Kyle's earlier confusion about his identity. The stern face gave no indication either way.

He was dressed smartly in a gray uniform – his last name tailored across the front like a badge of honor. It was dirty, as was the man wearing it, but John Connor still managed to look like a hero.

The dog, in the meantime, had gotten up and made her way to her owner, licking John's fingers with a sweet affection. John patted her head fondly, letting the dog relish the touch.

"Please tell me you've come to take the bitch back," the doctor said. "She keeps picking through all the damaged supplies."

"Take better care, then," John told him. His tone was not sharp, but it was laced with authority, nonetheless. "Here for the boy, actually. He ready?"

"He's patched up," the doctor answered noncommittally.

Connor frowned sourly at the doctor and turned his attention back to Kyle. "Are you feeling up to getting out of here, kid?"

"Yes, sir!" To prove his point, Kyle jumped to his feet as quickly as he could muster, ignoring his body's protests. He left his handful of supplies on the floor, hoping that, since Connor was the boss, the doctor wouldn't complain. Connor made a motion with his hand and the two walked out of the ward side by side.

Curiosity getting the best of him, Kyle couldn't help but take in his new surroundings. When they had first brought him in, he was far too ill to look around as his stretcher had passed through these narrow hallways.

Now, as he saw them, he was relieved that he hadn't ventured a peek before; they were disgusting – the walls smeared with stretches of dark brown, the floor caked with something more than mud. Crying and bitter shouts filtered through the walls from other parts of the building. The air reeked of misery as if it were a physical substance but, thankfully, of little else. It did not hold the smell of burnt flesh as the camp did.

"Sir?" he asked hesitantly. "Where are we?"

"The Beverly Center," Conner stated, as if it would make perfect sense to Kyle, who merely furrowed his brows in confusion. Seeing the look, Connor sighed and clasped his hands behind his back. "An old business, where people used to come and buy supplies. It was huge back before the war, and had multiple levels. They collapsed on top of each other and created these tunnels. Anyway, we're in West Hollywood."

"Oh, okay," Kyle said, although the last statement made no more sense than the first. He probably shouldn't have bothered to ask the question.

"Are you from L. A.?"

"I don't think so, sir." It was hard to know where the once great city of Los Angeles began and ended anymore – it was nothing but a pile of rubble for miles around now. Kyle's father had once told him that the city expanse went out as far as the ocean or nearly so, but Kyle had yet to see the sea.

"Where, then?" Connor asked, surprisingly adamant.

"Um, my father once said something about Yucaipa, sir," he answered as best he could. He wasn't from _there_, really – he had been born on the run – but that's where his parents had come from. He thought the name sound funny, and so it was all the easier to recall.

"Yucaipa?" Connor paused for a moment and studied Kyle, the emotion playing across his face unreadable.

"Yessir." Kyle bit his lip, attempting to understand Connor's reaction. "We were headed east, though. On foot, towards 'the boarder.'" Kyle had no idea what 'the boarder' was actually the boarder of, but the way his father spoke of it in such reverent tones, he could have guessed it was a place of salvation.

Instead of prompting him or shedding light on his father's words, Connor merely nodded. "But the Seekers found you?"

"We stopped; too close to one of their bases, I guess."

"Why?"

"My sister was being born, sir," Kyle replied softly. Little Abigail Reese had lived a whole of four days. His vision became hazy and he felt the tears pickling at his eyes. He blinked, and willed them away.

Connor's jaw twitched noticeably, but he said nothing, offered no sympathy. "Come on."

They turned along the jagged hallway in a seemingly mindless course. As they went, the crowds of gathered survivors became sparser, and the voices became fainter.

"These are my quarters," Connor announced, pulling back a tattered curtain. Kyle peered past him to look at the place where the legendary hero slept.

It wasn't much. A bare twin mattress lying in the corner served as a bed, and a stack of HK drumchaises had been welded together into the form of a workbench. Various small weapons and parts were sprawled over it, with some of the larger pieces drooping onto the floor.

Connor stepped over to the bench, checking some papers under the soft glow of a 10-watt lamp. Kyle moved into the room, careful not to get too far, lest Connor didn't want him nosing around his personal possessions. Dark shadows covered what looked to be a more interesting corner, where piles of paper were haphazardly collected.

A glint of metal caught Kyle's eye when the movement of John's body suddenly redirected the bulb's light unto the far wall. There was a small pipe, possibility the arm of an old T-70, tacked up loosely with fasteners. Several small objects decorated the makeshift mantel, and Kyle found himself unconsciously edging closer to it to get a better view.

Trinkets. A little plastic man holding an equally plastic blue wand. Hard bone-like pieces curled around themselves in perfect spirals. A row of perfectly rounded metal disks, no bigger than Kyle's index and middle fingers pressed together that either held a near bald man's head or a large bird with its wings folded out.

Pictures. A dog much like the one resting in the med ward. A girl, nay woman, with auburn hair, high cheekbones, and gray eyes. A boy with oddly cut, long, black hair and soft, blue eyes. The last was another woman, blond, with a rough bandana lopped around her forehead. Her hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail.

Kyle took another step so that he could make out the expression on the woman's face. It wasn't the generic, fake smile that the other two bore. She seemed almost … well, sad. Stuck in deep contemplation. Kyle knitted his eyebrows together, studying her. She was so beautiful.

"Reese," Connor boomed, causing Kyle's heart to jump into his throat. He turned, figuring he had been caught in the act of staring, but, thankfully, Connor's eyes were still glued to his paper. "Do you know how to read?"

"What?" Kyle blinked in unguarded confusion. Connor looked up at him, eyebrow raised. Kyle's mind remained at a standstill, trapped between embarrassment and bewilderment. "I mean, sir, well …" He paused, thinking. What constituted an ability to read? "A little."

Connor nodded, throwing down his papers with out a second thought.

"You'll need to read better than 'a little.' He walked over to the pile of papers and fished through it, Kyle's nervous eyes following his every movement. "There used to be a store here that sold nothing but books. A few of them survived." His hand rummaged around, knocking a few things away as he looked. "Aha, this ought to do the trick."

He pulled out a worn and ratty volume and handed it to Kyle, who glanced at it skeptically.

"In your free time, read it," Connor ordered. "When you feel ready, I want you to read it back out load to me. Keep an eye on it; people will burn anything. In the meantime," – he gestured with his hand, urging him out towards the hallways again – "You'll have to join a salvage team, I'm sure. But I also want you training."

They passed back through the complex, turning in another direction Kyle didn't remember seeing before. This time, they paused before a large, nearly cavernous room filled with metal scraps arranged in every shape imaginable. Most made it look like the ruins outside, but a few things – the row of parallel bars held some six feet off the ground, for example – made it look somewhat otherworldly.

"You can practice here," Connor said. "Eventually we'll work up to some combat and evade and maneuvering techniques. But first, I want you working out on those monkey bars." He pointed to the bars Kyle had noted earlier. "You should be able to swing from one to the next without stopping. You need to be able to lift yourself up using just your arms, too. Got that?"

Kyle nodded, trying not to look as nervous as he felt.

"Sometimes soldiers will be here, and other kids, training like you. Watch what they do and try to imitate it. Maybe they'll even offer to show you a few moves. You should take them up on it if they do." Connor paused and wrapped his arms around his chest, staring back at Kyle.

"This is what you want, right, kid?" He glaze was intense, almost asking – begging, daring? – Kyle to step down and refuse. The sadness that was present in the woman's photograph was nearly mirrored in his face.

"More than anything, sir." Kyle favored him with a rare smile.

"All right, get to it, then." At that, Connor dropped his head down and left, leaving Kyle alone in the chamber.

Kyle's eyes darted to the 'monkey bars' and then momentarily to the book.

"_If you give a mouse a cookie_," he read aloud. What a strange title. Why would anyone want to give a mouse anything? Maybe a cookie was something that made them easier to catch or taste better, or even got rid of some of their diseases. Shaking his head, he placed the book gently on the ground and turned back to the bars.

* * *

**Ghostwriter:** Thanks! Kyle is definitely one of my favorite characters, too ;-) I have to admit, rather shamefully, that your s/n sounded familiar but I couldn't quite place it. You wrote that nice little John vignette which I read and, like the scatter-brained individual I am, forgot to review. I enjoyed it. I shall have to go find it again and leave feedback :-D

**Mat: **Thanks! This opening scene was the first thought I had when I started writing this fic. I wanted to capture that sense of confusion and grit that we saw in the flashbacks. Sort of introducing the character of Kyle in that world, maybe even during his first encounter with it. I wanted to paint a picture of both the place where he grew up and how his interactions with it helped him become the guy we knew in the film. I've been debating with myself on how much back-story I'm willing to let Kyle have – not wanting to completely let go of the enigma he had in the films – but I think, as things are going now, we'll be seeing more about his family ;-)


	3. Reading To Your Son

"_Squire Trelawney, Doctor Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted …_" The young man's still pre-pubescent voice was oddly soothing, despite the fact that he managed to read in utter monotone, without any passion to the words, or even a hint of inflection.

Apparently, Kyle – John could not hope to refer to him as Reese anymore, at least not in his head – had not found _Treasure Island_ all that interesting, either.

John stifled a sigh and leaned the back of his head against the concrete wall, listening to Kyle read. The boy was a quick learner, no doubt about that, and, with this book, he only happened to slip up or mispronounce a few words at a time.

"_I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door …_"

To say that, as a child, John had often wondered what his father was like would be just the slightest of understatements. It had, in fact, racked at his brain from the time he first realized that he was supposed to have both a mommy _and_ a daddy. He imagined strong arms and a bright smile, warm words and gentle encouragement where his mother's training seemed to ask the impossible. Daddy also would have been able to soothe the tears away when mommy had a crying spell.

It wasn't until later that John realized that his father was the cause of those spells.

When he became old enough to listen to the tapes his mother had made, the picture of his father became equally clearer and more complex. He was a strong, skilled man, trained to overcome the most extreme difficulties, trained to adapt, trained to protect. Assertive when he needed to be – when his mission required him to be – but otherwise quiet and reserved. Seemingly emotionless and detached until contemplating a flower or describing the face of the woman he loved from a photograph.

The details were brief, and so the picture of his father remained incomplete. Had he truly loved his mother? Did he understand that he sired the great leader he cherished so? If he did, would he have wanted to stay and raise him? Or was his mission merely about protecting Sarah and winning timeless glory – a soldierly glory – for himself?

When he was ten, John was told, and had thought, that his mother was crazy. He had hated his father – his faceless, probably nameless father – then. He was no selfless soldier sent from the future, but some regular grunt asshole that knocked his mother up and took off. Left her alone to go insane while his own son was shipped off into foster care. The picture of his father had skewed into a fat, alcoholic, wife-beater that his foster father, Todd, would have been proud to call a drinking buddy.

Despite the trying circumstances surrounding fight against the T-1000, one good thing did come out of it – he now held proof that his mother had been telling the truth. His father was no Todd.

But that still didn't tell him who his father really was.

"_And indeed bad as his clothes were and coarsely as he spoke, he had none of the appearance of a man who sailed before the mast …_"

The sigh he had been holding in finally escaped, and John closed his eyes wearily.

As his mother had described the man, the boy wasn't much of a talker. He rarely volunteered information, and only then when asked for it directly. He tended to observe, to file everything he saw away into the recesses of his memory for some later use, and to ask question after question until the answers seemed to satisfy him.

But it wasn't that the boy didn't have personality. Oh, no: far from it.

"_And that was all we could learn of our guest._"

The book closed so softly that any other man probably wouldn't have heard it above the volume of Kyle's voice. John peeked open one eye slowly without making so much as a movement to alert the boy that he was watching him. His vision cleared through the narrow slit of his eyelid, and John could make out Kyle moving ever so quietly towards the mantel.

He was nearly silent, cat-like, and used his words to mask whatever sound he did make.

"_All day he hung round the cove or upon the cliffs with a brass telescope; all evening he sat in a corner of the parlour next the fire and drank rum and water very strong._"

Kyle was reciting the text from memory. It had been decades since John had read that book, but, he be damned if that didn't sound word-for-word. He felt a lump gather in his throat. His father, a photographic memory?

"_Mostly he would not speak when spoken to, only look up sudden and fierce and blow through his nose like a fog-horn ..._"

Kyle paused at the pictures, reaching for the one of John's mother. He didn't touch it, though, only traced her features loosely with the tip of his index finger. All the while he never missed a beat or a word of the story.

"_Everyday when he came back from his stroll he would ask if any seafaring men had gone by along the road…_"

"Quite a trick you've got there. Ever do it at a party?" John finally asked when Kyle's entranced stare began to twist at his heart and he could take no more.

Kyle jumped – his feet actually left the ground for a half second – and pulled the book tight to his chest. His expression, embarrassment mixed with shock, would have been humorous if not for the weight of Fate that his stare had produced.

"When I said 'recite' I didn't mean you had to memorize it," John said, clarifying. "How long did you spend memorizing?" He would deal with his mother's picture later.

The boy bit his lip. "I didn't, sir. Just read it the once."

John hopped off his bed and took the book. Kyle, clearly nervous, backed away as if John would strike him. The older man flipped through the pages, confirming his suspicions when he found the right page. Word-for-word.

"Well, I think we can call it quits for the reading practice; you seem to know your way around a page," he said, tossing _Treasure Island_ back into his random book pile. Kyle, seeing that he wasn't angry, visibly relaxed. "Do you remember everything you see?"

John's mind had just a split second to contemplate the impact that such a concept implied before his regret for asking and Kyle's soft, "yes," both came.

Every death. Every body. Every torturous device the machines could think to turn against a human was burned into Kyle's mind like the branding was burnt onto his skin. Clear. Vivid. Forever.

John actually felt himself grimace.

For his part, Kyle pretended not to notice the reaction.

"Useful skill to have, there," John finally said, turning thoughtfully towards the mantel. His mom's picture caught his eye and held it as if she were staring at him accusingly, despite the fact that she was thrown into the recesses of her own memories. He wished she were here now. She'd know what to say, what to do. She'd be able to preserve the timeline and comfort the lost boy at the same time.

"Who is she, sir?"

Damn it all to hell if Kyle didn't just keep throwing Fate into the mix. But, then again, he supposed, it had already been there all along.

"My mother."

Kyle cocked his head to the side, frowning. "She looks so young."

"It was taken before I was born."

"Is she dead?"

"Yes."

"Do you miss her?"

"Yes."

"I don't have a picture of my mother," Kyle said softly.

John let out his breath slowly, wearily. That part he'd never considered much before: grandparents. If his father had been a faceless shadow, they had been the wind blowing past the shadow's hair – so vague, so slight, that they were completely beyond his notice, even as a boy.

He had killed them. By accident, of course, but what difference did that really make? The raid on PC-148 – the camp Kyle had been held in – had gone to shit from the word 'go.' The op had been simple – throw out the generators, manually take down the guarding HKs, and lead the prisoners out to safety. He couldn't have guessed that the machines would have installed a backup HK power grid. It was definitely new protocol.

What was supposed to be a routine rescue turned into an all out battle before they could even gain access to the civilians. When the machines realized that they were going to be on the losing side, they then turned their weapons on the prisoners. Another new protocol. Kyle was the only one who managed to escape the massacre.

John had long since stopped feeling the spikes of guilt. The weight of responsibility and the burden of being the one who constantly had to make _that_ call had beaten it out of him. Yet it wasn't as if he felt as though he could do no wrong. It was more like guilt had taken up such permanent residence in his heart that he couldn't even register it anymore.

And so it was with the death of his grandparents.

He was sure Kyle knew the details, as quiet as he was on that particular subject when he asked about everything else. One of the other civvies might have told him, or even the doc. How Kyle reacted, if Kyle reacted, John simply didn't know.

"Who are the other people, sir?"

"Well," he said, turning his attending back to the photos. "This is me, when I was a kid. Probably about your age." He had just gotten away from the T-1000, he remembered, and he felt nothing but relief at the fact that it was seemingly all over. "We were heading back to Mexico. My mother was testing out her new field camera."

"We look alike," Kyle noted blandly.

John's heart skipped a beat, but he refused to let it show. "How can you tell with all that grime covering your face?" he retorted, jokingly

Kyle looked up, but before his lips could form into a pout, he stopped himself and his face went expressionless. "Who's she?"

"My wife, Kate."

"You're married, sir?"

"Yes." John almost had to smile. Life wasn't always so bad. "You'll probably meet her eventually, but she's directing the Colorado front now. We don't have much opportunity to see each other anymore."

Kyle didn't respond, but, instead, looked to be puzzling something out, the way he always did.

"I have something for you, anyway," John continued, changing the subject. "Let's go."

The gift he had in mind was ready to go now, but he had originally planned to wait another week, until Kyle had demonstrated that his ability to scavenge was adequate. But, what better way to learn how to do something than to be put in a situation where you needed to do it? Well, that was the rule of this world, and Kyle knew it well enough as it was, but this time it would actually be a treat.

He led the boy down a rarely used tunnel and down a flight of crooked stairs. Nobody ever came down here, they hadn't really discovered it yet, John supposed, and so it made a perfect hiding spot. Especially with its large population of rats.

A soft whine greeted them as they made the final descent into a shallow alcove. His dog, Molly, was there, eagerly greeting him. Three pups followed in her wake, bouncing happily at what they considered to be a surrogate father.

"I've had them down here for a few months," John said. Kyle was instantly on his knees and allowing the playful puppies to crawl all over him. "The doc just wouldn't have them after they were born, and I didn't want people to harass them or try and make a meal out of them. They can't drink just milk anymore, though; they have to start hunting for food."

Kyle wasn't paying any attention. He was too busy playing tug-o-war with an old, chewed up piece of rubber.

He was also smiling. Kyle's smiles were rarer than an unopened can of fruit in the hot zone; they had to be coaxed out of him. And usually they were brief and slight, not the full, face-splitting grin that he showed right now.

John had to pause just to admire it.

"A dog can be very useful," he continued, knowing he was speaking to air. "He'll help you hunt, help you spot the machines. I want you to have one."

Kyle stopped dead in his movements. So, he _was_ paying attention. John had to stifle a grin. Kyle turned wide-eyed, shocked, and the piece of rubber was completely forgotten. One of the littler pups dragged it away into the corner.

"You'll have to train him," John told him. "You'll have to help him find food outside. You can't feed him from the rations. It can get dangerous, hunting everyday. But, if you think you can handle it …" He trailed off, watching Kyle pick up a boy that had been nuzzling against his knees since he had arrived.

He held him close to his chest. The pup happily licked his hand as he stroked the top of his head. His eyes were closed tightly.

"You want that one?"

Kyle only nodded silently.

"So, what are you going to name him?" he asked pleasantly, casually. John wanted to keep the conversation going, worried that Kyle was going to have some sort of emotional breakdown.

"Name?" Kyle's eyes opened, slightly misty. He regarded John with some confusion.

"Dogs usually have names."

"Oh," Kyle said, staring back down at the dog, thinking. "What should I name him, sir?"

"Whatever you want."

Kyle continued to stare blankly. The puppy looked back up at him, equally puzzled.

"How about Wolfy?" John suggested. There, problem solved.

"Wolfy, sir?" Kyle asked, glancing back up. "I've never met a person with the name Wolfy before."

"People have people names and dogs have dog names," John explained, badly and briefly. "Wolfy's a fine dog name. But you name him whatever you want."

"I like it," Kyle said quickly. "Wolfy." He picked the dog up, holding him underneath his front legs. He was rewarded with a long lick across his face.

And then John heard a sound he'd never thought he'd hear.

Kyle laughed.

* * *

**Ghostwriter: **Hey, don't condone my laziness, that'll just make it worse:-p But, yeah, I did enjoy it.

**Mat: **I think part of what makes John such a good leader is everything his mother told him about the future, including little details like the dogs. Gotta love those self-fulfilling prophecies. And Kyle has to be a mystery, I don't think I could write him as a completely open book, it just wouldn't be any fun ;-)


	4. Out and About

**Author's Note: **This is probably my least favorite chapter so far, or close to it. So, please bear with it …

* * *

_If you give a mouse a glass of milk, he's going to want a straw. If you give a mouse a straw, he's going to …_ Kyle blinked. Of all the things to be thinking about now, why that dumb book? He'd read it over a year ago, and he was still trying to wipe the ridiculous images out of his mind. 

He turned his head, watching the dust piles flutter around his face, coating him with a new layer of dirt. His eyes found Clark, who was staring at him, expression wide, and with one grimy cheek resting on the ground. She was eleven, the same age he was, and had surprisingly round features given that the rest of her body told that she was half starved. Her hair, longer than his – impractical – was starting to develop mats. Maybe he'd offer to cut it off for her when they got back.

She smiled innocuously. He ignored her, glancing back instead at the pulses of light fading in the distance. The noise from the earlier battle was completely faded, leaving only an unnatural stillness to the night air.

He glanced at Wolfy, who was laying his chin in the dirt without worry.

"We're clear," he announced, yanking himself up, out of the narrow trench. He reached out a hand to help Clark as Jacobson hulled out their salvage wagon. Wolfy obediently came to his side.

"Let's hope you've used your own tracking and not that dumb dog, Reese," Jacobson hissed as he powered up the crank flashlight. "I don't exactly feel like becoming HK vapor tonight." Where Clark was soft and round, Jacobson was rough and sharp. Tall and lanky, he may have filled out nicely in another lifetime. Now he just looked awkward.

"You're always so mean to Reese," Clark commented as they began their trek towards the fallen terminators, which were brought down only hours ago by a resistance infantry team. "He's a better tracker than you and you know it. You're jealous."

Understatement of the week.

"Yeah, well, you would have gone to a camp, but, when the machines found you, they left you alone because they didn't think you were really human," Jacobson hissed back.

Kyle folded his arms across his chest, contemplating the pile of refined steel skeletons, which, even in death, mocked the human form.

"Hey!" Clark cried.

"Payload. We should gather the firearms first," Kyle said, oblivious to everything else after seeing their lucky find. "Clark should aim for M Twenty-Fives. Jacobson and I'll grab the M Ninety-Fives. If we have extra space, let's try and take some of the chaises."

"What about the ocular sensors?" Jacobson asked, already setting towards a downed terminator that was once holding his assigned plasma rifle.

"Connor doesn't want them, says we need the guns more," Clark said.

They worked silently for a few minutes as the night breeze blew through their hair. Kyle squatted next to a T-300, the foot soldier of Skynet, and tried to pry the plasma rifle out of its death grip. It was melted on, probably accidentally soldered together with the steel hand by a resistance fighter's shot. He set to work, carefully burning the steel away from the hilt.

"_In the dissolution, in the pain, _  
_In the darkness, in the fear, they came,_  
_Sharing one name._"

Clark was singing absentmindedly to keep the quiet of the night at bay. Kyle paused for a moment, wondering if it was safe for her to talk so loudly, but let it pass. The machines were all too far away now, gathered together to fight the battles raging in the west.

"_In the last moments, a woman so pure,_  
_Would bring a son gifted with the cure,_  
_Freedom for sure._"

The gun finally parted from the hand after he yanked hard enough, and he moved to the next – another T-300 bearing an M95. At least this one looked to be a little less like a pile of goop.

"_Sarah Connor, strength and beauty are hers._  
_Her skill, too, could not vanish through the years,_  
_Banishing fears_."

Kyle sunk down to the ground again, and found the dirt softer than usual. He glanced next to his knee, using his flashlight to get a clear view, and saw an anthill complete with little black ants working their way up to his legs. He shot his head up, regarding his companions.

They were both preoccupied, Clark with her singing and a fairly busted T-200, Jacobson with an attempt to ignore the singing and a T-300.

"_We will storm the camp walls in victory,_  
_Put those machines in a purgatory,_  
_Great day that'll be …_"

He called Wolfy over with a twitch of his head and dunked his hand in the top of the anthill. When a few of the little bugs crawled up onto him, he licked them off with a swift movement, too brief for the others to get a gleam on what he was doing. He filled his hand again and brought it up to Wofly's snout so that the dog could get a good lick. His companions remained oblivious.

"_Sarah Connor was a …_"

"Okay, I can't handle it anymore," Jacobson finally said, throwing the rifle in the wagon with more force than necessary. "Shut up."

Deftly, Kyle put a worn scrap of steel over the anthill. The ants, angry at being attacked, immediately crawled up on it, looking for someone or something to fight against. Taking the hint, Wolfy began to repeatedly lick the metal. Kyle took one more handful for himself before joining the others, careful to make sure that the evidence of his spectacular find wasn't apparent.

"I think it's good song," Clark said, forlorn. "Franklin's teaching me one about John Connor's father and mother. How they were the king and queen before the machines came."

"It wasn't the song that was making me go insane, it was you singing it," Jacobson hissed.

"King and queen?" Kyle asked after making sure Wolfy's feast was hidden from their view. He hadn't heard this one before.

"Yep," Clark replied cheerfully. "John was the prince, of course. They ruled all this, from the ocean to the mountains. But the machines came and took the kingdom away. They killed his father, and Sarah had to run away with John. But the song isn't about that, not really. It's about the king, who was the handsomest in the land and very just, and how he met Sarah. She was wearing a special shoe that only fit her, and it fell off when they were dancing, you see, and the king could identify her from all the other girls in the land with it."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," Jacobson barked out. Kyle came around the front to help him with a chaise. They lifted it, struggling with the weight. "We don't even know his father's name, how could he have been a king?"

"His name was Connor," Clark retorted.

"Probably, but that's not the point," Jacobson said. "Los Angeles was ruled by a president, anyway."

"Maybe Connor was a president."

"Maybe," Jacobson relented slightly. "Either way, he died even before the war, so I don't think it makes any difference."

Clark paused for a moment, considering. "I still bet he was handsome," she said with finality. "Because Sarah Connor was beautiful."

Finally, something Kyle could agree with. He closed his eyes, recalling the photograph. Wolfy came to his side silently, clearly having finished off the ants.

"Whatever," Jacobson replied. He turned his attention back to the wagon. "We're full. Let's go back."

"Six M Ninety-Fives, twelve M Twenty-Fives, eighty-six rounds of pulse plasma, four grenades, one PX sighter scope, and a T chaise," the Specialist said, tallying. "All right, not bad." He handed the weapons to the Privates to sort. "That'll get you P-Five foodstuffs. I think I can give you three. Here."

The trio grabbed at them hungrily, tearing the loose wrappers away before shoving the squares in their mouths.

Kyle closed his eyes and chewed slowly, savoring it. Much, much better than ants or rats. Soy protein, they called it, whatever that was. All he knew was that it tasted something akin to heaven and could keep him going strong for more than a day.

Tonight had indeed been a fine one. How lucky they were.

Clark was smiling at him when he opened his eyes, mirroring with her face his inner elation. Jacobson slapped him on the back and hugged him with one arm, the food washing away his usually sour attitude.

"We're the masters of the world, hey, Reese?" he asked, leading them down the hall towards the orphans' corridor.

"Best scavengers this side of the boarder," Clark agreed, coming up to warp an arm around Jacobson's free side.

Kyle had learned, after getting out of the med ward and his awkward chat with Connor, that the meals in this bunker weren't exactly free. He had wandered through the seemingly endless halls alone and unsure of what he was supposed to be doing until he came upon groups of children around his own age.

A guard walking by had hurryingly told him that this was the spot that all the kids without parents stayed, that he'd probably be welcomed. Some of the kids even worked as scavengers for food, stripping the machines fallen in battle after resistance soldiers had fought them. He could probably find a team that needed a new member and they'd teach him the ropes.

So he did. And Clark had been an excellent teacher.

Jacobson was new, having only been the bunker for a few months. The other member of their team, Pep, had turned 15 and shipped off to join the resistance, leaving them a man short of the perfect salvage team operation. Jacobson had filled in nicely, and he had the size to help them lift heavier items.

Kyle didn't honestly know want happened to the kids – and the adult civilians – who decided not to work, either by scavenging, making cloth, or growing food. He didn't know if the resistance still fed them, too, and he didn't really want to find out. All he knew was that the resistance feed him better when he brought in better stuff.

Better feedings meant he could spend more time training to be a soldier.

He leaned down in the corner his little group called its own. A few spare, ratty blankets were the only things that defined it as theirs, but it was homey enough. Clark and Jacobson sat down next to him, close, and began to talk in soft whispers about absolutely nothing. It sounded like they were about to return to the previous debate of a king versus a president.

Kyle reached under the blankets and dug a few inches into the underlying dust, finding and grapping his most recent book, the _1996 Los Angeles Country Street Atlas_. Connor had given it to him, but, unlike the other books, which were either stories or practical guides on things like hunting or training dogs, this was just a plain schematic of streets that weren't even around anymore.

Even more odd was the fact that Connor had asked him to memorize it completely. He never asked him to do that before, even with the books that contained useful information, and sometimes he even went so far as to chide Kyle for automatically doing it.

Connor was an odd man, even if Kyle could only admit that to himself. Yet Kyle still did what he asked without question. He loved nothing more than to make the older man proud.

Kyle knew his treatment from Connor was unusual. He was the only orphan, nay, the only civilian, that Connor took the time to talk to. When he first left the med ward, he had merely thought Connor's visit was routine – he must have visited all the survivors; the camp was small enough. Then, as the months passed and they meetings continued, Kyle chalked it up to Connor's role in the death of his parents – maybe he felt guilty.

But had seen enough of bunker life to know that mistakes happened frequently. People died even more frequently. Connor never sat with the grieving families, no matter how much of a hand he had in their loved one's death. And he certainly hadn't given anybody else a dog.

Kyle was special and he didn't know why.

He heard the whispers, the rumors, set out by both the children and the adults, and he knew how cruel some of them were. But he didn't listen, didn't let them bother him.

Good things were rare in life, and he wouldn't blow this one.

He found Connor in his quarters, as he usually was in the first few hours after dawn. All the missions should be over that that time, and the salvage teams home, so now everyone should be settled down, resting before a new night began.

Connor never seemed to rest, though.

"Sir?" Kyle asked softly.

Connor was sitting at his workbench, supplies stretched out before him. He didn't move at Kyle's entrance, didn't even glance at him.

"How's the atlas coming along?" he inquired instead.

"I'm done with it," Kyle said.

"Really?" He looked up at that. "Pretty impressive. Can't say I got much else for you to read, but you're welcome to look through that stuff."

Kyle shrugged, not really wanting to read anything. Connor's current work looked much more interesting. "What are you doing, Sir?"

"Killing time, making pipe bombs," Connor replied. He then snorted out a laugh. "Don't call the cops or my step dad'll kick my ass."

"Huh?"

"Never mind that last part," Connor said with a sigh. "These things used to be illegal because you can make them out of ingredients found in most people's houses. Pretty useful now a days. High impact, small quantity of materials."

"What are they?" Kyle slinked forward to peer over Connor's shoulder.

"Plastique," Connor said. Kyle glanced at him, no more enlightened. "It's French for plastic. Plastic explosives."

"The French invented it, then, Sir?" Kyle knew about French people, or nationality in general, rather. He was supposedly American, because he lived here. French people lived somewhere else, some place that you couldn't even walk to. It used to matter where you were from; people would even start wars with each other over it. They still spoke a different language than the one he knew, but he had happened upon Connor speaking rapidly in another language once, so it was apparently possible to know more than one.

"No," Connor replied. "The British did. But it was shipped to France in World War Two, hence the name."

"Oh."

"Hey," Connor cocked his head thoughtfully. The sharp haze of the light filled his face, making him look slightly friendlier than usual. "You want to learn how to make these? From what I've seen, one of these can rip a terminator spine right off its torso. Good to keep handy, and you might be able to trade them, too."

"Yeah," Kyle said enthusiastically, sitting down next to Connor and huddling close in the narrow light.

Wolfy, bored, settled down next to his already sleeping mother, content to watch the two humans work side-by-side.

* * *

**Mat**: The quick update is somewhat of an illusion; I have it written through chapter eight. It might be a little longer after this post, too, since my beta reader has to edit 4-8, and I think she's going to do it all in one lump.

I think I read through almost all of the fics here and very few of the Kyle-centric stuff caught my interest (there was hardly any of it to begin with, anyway). I might try to read some John or Sarah stuff at some point ponders. My beta reader and I often discuss why so little Terminator fic is written, when it has all the makings that would lead to a great fandom. She thinks it's because T1, which is the most fandom-friendly movie, is so old. Anyway, I'd love to read more good fics. I've found a few Kyle/Sarah on other sites, but that's about it.

Anyway, thanks. Your reviews really make my day ;-)

**K: **Thanks! I love Kyle, too. He certainly is probably the most interesting character in the Terminator movies, at least to me. John and Sarah have great character development, but they're both pretty easy to understand. Kyle just … isn't ;-)


	5. A Day in the Life

"Preliminary reconnaissance reports show four main guard towers. We can assume they're equipped with plasma turrets and infrared. We'll need to take 'em out first."

John nodded blankly at the statement, running his hand through his hair and hoping that the movement would make him look a little less stressed than he actually was. This strategic briefing was definitely routine, but John was always weary of putting his people in that much danger. This time the pay off would be well worth it – at least a thousand prisoners – workers – and a possibility of three thousand still-living prisoners scheduled for termination.

"I suggest we send in infantry teams, ten man, with back up sappers; one for each of the towers," Lieutenant Barrera said as they all studied the map. It was a simple chart, a piece of cardboard with lines drawn on it to represent the topography, buildings, and points of potential attack. Small, plastic red and blue pieces, carved loosely to resemble the two opposing sides, were laid out in the board in the proper arrangement.

John smirked mentally, remembering those cool battle screens that were always the centerpieces of war rooms and spaceship bridges in movies. Yet, he supposed it was fitting, at least, that his were so low tech. Some how, he imagined that red and white backlit Plexiglas in his command center would have been a bit hypocritical.

"Then the main units can assault the fences – here, here, here," Barrera continued, pointing to various places along the fence line.

John leaned back, thinking, judging. "Are the fences electrified?"

A brief movement caught his eye, from the hall entrance, and John turned part of his attention to it. Spies were non-existent in the human resistance – machines had yet to infiltrate their ranks, especially now that the dogs could spot the smaller HKs, and people, whatever their moral character, would gain nothing but a swift death by betraying them.

Yet it was in John's nature to be on this side of careful. After all, the older Reese had told his mother that the machines would eventually become cybernetic organisms. He had said that it was a recent development, though, so John figured he had a few years left.

"No, sir. Standard barbwire," another officer answered his question.

Speaking of Reese …

The shadow he spotted was Wolfy, or his tail at least, as he was quick to turn back to his master from his exposed position in the doorway. Kyle must have been returning from the practice room.

The kid was eavesdropping, and, from the looks of it, he was probably couching down, back against the wall, within a few inches of the entryway. Always so curious. He played, it seemed, just in his own way, and in his own games.

He was a damn near expert at crawling around the machines. He needed to work on his stealth around people, though. People didn't need infrared, they just needed instinct.

John hid a smile with his palm and grabbed a nearby pin with his other hand.

"I vote, sir," Barrera was saying, oblivious, "that we place the Forty-third in the rear of the camp, to move in and protect the prisoners even before the infantry disarms the HKs."

John's smile faded.

"Good thinking," Lieutenant James said. "We don't want a repeat of Camp One Forty-eight."

Game over. Some things Kyle shouldn't have to hear. At least not yet.

John threw the pin out the door, toward the invisible Kyle. The action was greeted with a rough dog yelp and the shuffling and retreating of growing feet.

The officers simultaneously turned their heads towards the direction of the flying pin, seconds too late to catch their little spy's flight. No one spoke until John gave a quiet sigh.

"What's the expected causality rate?" he asked when he was sure Kyle was gone.

* * *

Kyle moved through the halls, his heart still thudding from the surprise of that object nearly hitting his head. He knew, despite the fact that he was out of view, that the pin was meant for him. He berated himself silently.

If a human could spot him, what could a machine do?

He had barely heard any of the conversation, besides, but it sounded like they were planning another strike on a prisoner camp.

Oh, to be a part of something like that …

But, no.

He was stuck here, dealing with things like this …

"Don't you dare!" Clark screamed as he turned the corner, her usual calm and cheery exterior completely broken.

Kyle paused, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"You told her," he grumbled. It wasn't a question.

"How was I supposed to know she'd freak out?" Jacobson retorted. "I'd thought she'd be happy."

"Boys have short hair, Reese," Clark hissed, backing against the wall. "Girls have long hair. I'm not gonna look like a boy, stupid." The other children stopped what they were doing to watch the commotion with idle interest.

Some months ago, Kyle had told Clark about the severe matting in her hair. They had debated and he and Jacobson had agreed that the only way to get rid of them was to cut them off. Pulling them out would be too painful, if they even could manage to do so. But Clark had refused their help even then.

Now her head was one solid knot. She'd be covered in lice if something wasn't done about it soon. He'd be forgiven for not wanting to sleep next to _that_.

"Good going," Kyle said to Jacobson, giving him a vaguely disgusted look. He blinked and motioned quickly with his eyes towards Clark's cowering form.

"Well, that would kill me," Jacobson returned. "I'd be begging to have it off."

"Grab her," Kyle ordered and Jacobson jumped into action, wrapping his arms tight around her and pining her to his chest.

Predictably, she struggled. Her legs alone flailed about as she fruitlessly tried to kick both of them away. Failing at that, she swung her head in an attempt to simultaneously bite Jacobson and keep whatever cutting utensil Kyle had at bay.

He pulled said utensil out – a standard pocketknife used by the resistance soldiers. He had borrowed it from the supply locker next to the practice room. He was sure nobody would miss it nor even notice that it was gone. He didn't want to take too much of a chance, though – the knife, because it was so sharp, was clearly valuable, and he didn't want to be accused of stealing it, as much as he would want one for himself.

"Reese, I swear it, you do this and I'll kill you in your sleep," she growled.

"I'd like to see you try," Kyle shot back, edging forward. "If I were you, I wouldn't move."

* * *

"I hate you."

She gave him a glare so fiery that it could melt the alloy right off a terminator.

"I told you not to move," he said defensively, masking the guilt he felt with harsh words. He folded his arms across his chest and slouched in his seat on the empty med bunk.

"Coulda sworn you guys had it bad enough as it is without taking knives to each other," the doctor commented dryly. He drew the suture laces up, tightening them before twisting them into another knot.

"It was an accident," Jacobson finally spoke up, defending their actions. He gave Kyle a sympathetic near smile.

Kyle sighed, forlorn. Clark now had two-inch gash running along the top of her head, in addition to a half-cut ball of hair fuzz adorning the reminder of her skull. She looked positively hideous, like the burned, melted, and hairless plastic, decapitated doll's heads that would randomly roll out of the piles of rubble when they were sorting through them.

"Tipping over some toys? Accident. Falling down and scrapping your knee? Accident. Purposely attacking your friend's head with a seven-inch knife? Not an accident," the doctor stated with what Kyle could only assume was some form of sarcasm.

"You're strange." That was Clark, mirroring Kyle's thoughts exactly and turning her head to take in a glance of the doctor. He righted her with a sharp, adept movement of his hand. Clark fixed her attention back on Kyle, looking irritated and more than just a little angry. He flinched slightly under her gaze. "And he's not my friend."

That stung. What was worse was that he was surprised it stung. They had spent well near two years together, watching each other's backs. Couldn't they be considered friends? Well, he supposed ruefully, that depended on how 'friend' was defined. Adults tended to use it to describe people they were close to, people they worked with, and slept next to; all the things he did with Clark and Jacobson, but he didn't know if it was the same thing.

"Strange or no," the doctor said, "I'm going to have to make some sort of report about this."

"Wait," Clark interrupted, about to move her head again but thinking better of it. "Reese isn't going to get in trouble, is he?"

"He stole resistance property and attacked you with it," the doctor reminded her. "Shouldn't he be punished?" The old man raised a curious eyebrow as he spoke.

Kyle rubbed his face harshly with both hands, closing his eyes. Well, this day was just getting better and better. Before he knew it, he'd probably be thrown out of the bunker and left to his own devices to find his own food and a means to ward away the machines.

Not that he ever heard of John Connor doing that to anybody, but still.

It'd be his luck.

Sensing his distress, even Wofly let out a concerned whimper and rested his chin on Kyle's lap. Kyle ran his hands slowly through the dog's fur, not bothering to look up.

"But, you can't," Clark finally said, her voice bordering on a whine.

"Can't I?" the doctor asked rhetorically.

Kyle glanced back at Clark, who was biting her lip in an intense internal debate with herself. She wouldn't meet his gaze, keeping her eyes down instead, and she wrung her fingers together in an uncharacteristic fidget.

"You can't," she said again, softly. "He was trying to help me. He borrowed the knife to cut my hair for me, but I tried to bite him. It's not his fault."

"Good to know," the doctor said, chuckling. "It's very comforting to see that some things with kids never seem to change."

All three of the children looked at him, equally puzzled.

"Now, Kyle, Matt," the doctor began again, causing Kyle to flinch slightly at the use of his first name. "You both will apologize to Laney for trying to cut her hair without her permission."

The two boys traded skeptical glances.

"Why?" Jacobson finally asked.

"It's not up to questioning," the doctor told him, his voice becoming a little harsher than usual. "Just apologize. Damn kids today have no manners." The last of his words were a rough mumble.

"I'm sorry," Kyle ventured, hoping his obedience would quell the doctors raising annoyance and belay Jacobson's defiance. Getting out of here all the sooner was also a nice wish.

"Yeah, me too," Jacobson blurted out, following suit. The doctor's stern glance caused Jacobson to shiver, and speak up again. "Sorry, I mean."

Clark had just enough time to smirk in self-satisfaction, before the doctor continued.

"And, Laney, you will apologize for trying to bite Kyle and Matt, and being ungrateful when they offered their help."

Her smirk vanished, replaced by a look of utter shock mixed with betrayal.

"But –"

"Damn it all to hell," the doctor hissed, breaking open a pack of gauze with more force than necessary. "Just say it."

"Sorry," Clark said, not wanting to press the doctor's already taxed nerves.

"Better," the doctor said, pleased. "We'll have you acting like ladies and gentlemen yet." He fastened the gauze onto Clark's head gently, pushing it firmly down to fully cover the wound. "Keep it clean, out of water, and come back in about ten days to get the stitches removed. You can go." He helped the girl jump down off the examination table.

"What about Reese?" Clark asked as they gathered together to leave.

"I won't tell anyone about the knife," the doctor said, favoring Kyle with a soft smile. "But, Kyle, return it and don't ever take anything like that again without asking. Taking other people's property is stealing. It's wrong."

"Yes, sir," Kyle replied, understanding the doctor's argument in theory. Jacobson, however, wasn't so enlightened.

"But we needed it," he concluded, cocking his head. "If Clark's hair would have stayed that way, she would've gotten bugs. How can cutting it have been wrong?"

"You still should have asked for permission."

Kyle edged towards the exit, hoping that Jacobson would get the hint. He did not want to listen to this conversation. Talking like this seemed even less useful than those weird books Connor used to make him read.

"But what if the knife didn't belong to anybody?"

"Then it would have been fine."

"What if the person who once had it is dead?"

The doctor cringed at that, but answered all the same. "It would be okay, I guess, but, when a person dies, all his things should go to his family, if he has one, first."

All three of the children snickered at that. Kyle himself had yet to see a child get things from a parent when they died. He had nothing from his parents, neither did Clark or Jacobson.

"What if the knife belonged to a terminator?"

Great, now Jacobson was baiting him.

"Well–" the doctor hesitated.

"Because we steal from them everyday, and they're some-bodies."

"It's different," the doctor finally concluded.

"How so?"

"Let's go," Clark interrupted before the dialogue could go any further.

Kyle silently agreed and pushed Jacobson out of the med ward. He ventured one last glance over his shoulder as they left, and saw the doctor turning away, shaking his head and looking disturbed.

"Some adults are so strange," Jacobson commented as they walked back to the orphans' hall. "Especially him. If people can't protect their things, then why should another person get punished for taking them?"

"Yeah, well," Kyle said, perturbed and not bothering to answer the question, if he even had an answer to give. "Just keep your mouth shut next time; I could have gotten in big trouble back there."

"Whatever," Jacobson returned flatly. "Let's just get ready and get outside. We've already lost several hours."

Kyle nodded in agreement. Petty arguments would have to wait. They had yet to gather enough for dinner, and that always came first.

* * *

**Ghostwriter: **Thanks!

**Mat: **Thanks! The passage of time was something I've been worrying about. I don't want it to seem too episodic or jumpy, but I also want to give a good overview of Kyle growing up. It's an interesting, trying to suit both while working on plot and characterization.

**MizJoely: **Thanks!


	6. Trading

**Author's Notes: **Sorry to keep you waiting, if anyone was waiting. I switched from the West Coast to the East Coast (I do that occasionally) and then got a kitten ….

* * *

"_Yankee Eighteen to Yankee Base, do you read?_"

"Copy. What's your status?"

John stood, hands behind his back, a few nervous twitches away from pacing again. He stared back at the battle plan laid out on the table – useless now that his men were out in the field and setting his strategy in motion, but it gave his eyes something to focus on, at the very least.

The desire to do _something_, anything, was grating on him. He should have gone out there; he should have gone with his men. He never was an armchair commander, content to tell a soldier to defend and die out on the front lines. He preferred action.

No choice in the matter, though, this time. He supposed it was a good thing; his little one-man resistance was growing so exponentially that most of his ops were now attacks on camps in other states. Travel there and back for anyone other than the men directly involved in the mission was not only unnecessary, it was also extremely dangerous.

There was a static on the line momentarily, causing the officers in the comm. room to hold a collective breath.

"_We got the bastards_," Yankee Eighteen finally said, the line hissing after each word. "_We're heading back to the temp. base to regroup. Over_."

There was nothing but elated grins – too early to cheer yet – as John picked up the offered radio.

"Yankee Eighteen, this is Connor," he said into the microphone. "What's the headcount on the survivors? Over."

A pause. John felt his hand tighten around the radio and his throat clench. This couldn't be good.

"_Corporal Donahue reports that it's too many to count, sir,_" Eighteen replied confidently. "_Well over a thousand, sir, and sixty percent of our men. Over._"

A sigh of relief ran through the comm. room. Despite the fact that forty percent of his troops had just died, John couldn't help but feel slightly jubilant as well. The great weight had been briefly lifted off his chest. It would resettle again soon, he knew, but at least now, he could breathe freely.

"Mission successful."

"_Yes, sir_."

The clapping and shouting was surprisingly loud for the small comm. room, and it roared in John's ears. He smiled then, too, but didn't let it last long. He quieted his officers with a gentle movement of his hand.

"Congratulations, Sergeant," he said. "Regroup. We are going to establish a permanent base and bunker at nearby coordinates to handle the population increase. Further details to follow. Over and out."

* * *

"Look. Do you want them or not?" Kyle was getting uncharacteristically annoyed. Jacobson stood next to him silently, shuffling the dirt with the toe of his boot.

The old man, Kaezar, looked over the pipe bombs suspiciously, fiddling with one of the fuses absentmindedly. Kyle held his breath, uncomfortable with the action, but not wanting to make the greasy man anymore creepy or let him come under the impression that the bombs weren't perfectly safe.

"How do I know they'll work?" he hissed through the holes in his teeth. The third time he'd asked the question, only in slightly different wording. Kaezar's bloodshot eyes rolled to the side to share a glance with his companions, who were standing like guards, muscled and grimy, at the side of the trader's table. He paid no heed, however, to the small woman sitting quietly next to him.

"How about we light one and shove it up your ass and see?" Jacobson said, his already naturally small level of patience taxed to the brink.

Kyle opened his mouth to either apologize or agree, when the man's guards barked out in laughter.

"Pretty bold, you little dipshit," Kaezar growled, clearly infuriated that he had been smarted so in front of his men. "Want me to gut you where you stand, boy?"

Kyle grew nervous as the man took one of the more dangerous weapons off the table, a switchblade, and flicked it open. Kyle backed up instinctively, grabbing Jacobson by the wrist protectively as he did so.

These fellows, new to the bunker, weren't the traders to be messing with. Unlike most of the residences here, they were well fed and strong. The array of weapons decorating the table didn't add to their friendliness.

"There are people here," Kyle pointed out, glancing in the direction of the other, calmer, more familiar traders. "We watch our own." Not necessarily true in all cases, but Kyle seriously doubted the civvies would allow a murder to be conducted right before their eyes, and he knew Connor's men would stop it, anyway.

"Fine, fine," Kaezar relented, closing the switch. "If they don't work …" He left the threat open. "I'll take two dozen for one."

"Sounds like a deal." Kyle, swallowing the remnant of his fear, reached for the bag slung over his shoulder and started unloading the bombs onto the already crowded table.

"I got pink and I got green, which one you want?"

The two boys glanced at each other, questioningly. Finding no answer in the stare, Kyle shrugged and broke away first.

"Pink," Jacobson decided. The old man rummaged through a dirty canvas bag and pulled out a small item, handing it to Jacobson.

It was as the man had described: a large, pink handkerchief, more or less clean, with small shapes embroidered on it.

Kyle nodded to Kaezar, dismissing him, as he and Jacobson turned away.

'Unsavory' was too polite a term to refer to that particular trader, but he was the only one who had the goods they needed. Cloth was becoming rarer by the day, and most would rather die than give up any sort of fabric. But these men were new, and brought a number of exotic things to trade, if one could meet the price.

The item was well worth the trade, though, and, while Kyle didn't actually know what the old man was going to do with the plastique, he could always hope that he would follow through with Jacobson's suggestion.

"It's soft, real soft," Jacobson was saying, running his thumb and index finger across the fabric.

"Let me see," Kyle said, grabbing it away. Jacobson didn't fight him. The handkerchief was lightweight and smooth under his grip. It prickled at the nerve endings on his fingers, soothing some of the soreness, burns, and cuts caused from the hours spent slaving away in front of the bombs. It reminded him of Sarah Connor, beautiful and soft like she must have been, for sure, but also because it resembled the bandana she had draped around her forehead. Maybe it had been pink as well; Kyle couldn't tell – the picture was too faded.

"Are you going to give it to her, or am I?" Jacobson asked, peering at the handkerchief with an expression akin to awe.

"It was your idea. You should give it to her," Kyle conceded.

"But you made the bombs," Jacobson said. "I doubt we could have traded anything else."

"You helped me find the stuff to make them," he replied, pausing to turn and face the other boy. Their gazes met and, although Kyle was a good number of inches shorter than his companion, his well-muscled and athletic frame made him the more intimidating of the two. "Listen, if you don't want to –"

"I want to," Jacobson interrupted with an unfamiliar zeal. He snatched away the handkerchief, even before Kyle could protest, and slowly jogged the rest of the way back. Kyle calmly followed, bewildered.

"Hey, Clark!"

The girl was sitting, back against the wall and dusty blanket over her head. She looked up as they entered, and her lips quaked in that all too common pout.

She was still angry and, hey, Kyle couldn't really blame her; the other orphans had been laughing at her regularly since the botched haircut day. Kyle paused a few feet away, still not ready to get too close after that day her surprisingly sharp fingernails left their mark on his nose.

"Don't look at us like that," Jacobson continued in mock reproach, crouching next to her. "We got you a nice present."

She looked at him, confused, uncomprehending, until he raised his hand up to show her the pink handkerchief, now wrinkled after the boys had passed it back and forth between themselves. Her mouth actually gaped, leaving a small opening, as her eyes widened. She brushed it gently with her hand before taking it from Jacobson's loose grip.

"You can put it on the top of your head until your hair grows back," Jacobson suggested. Clark touched the fabric to her cheek, delighting in the contact.

"You got this for me, Jacobson?" Her voice cracked slightly, and the anger had completely disappeared.

Kyle drew forward, the danger having dissipated.

"We both did," Jacobson corrected, smiling.

Tears, to Kyle's surprise and discomfort, began to pour from Clark's eyes, and she grabbed Jacobson in a fierce hug. She clung to him desperately, as if her life depended on him, and started to sob.

Kyle looked on, his throat dry and his nerves shot. The other children had also stopped to see what was going on – it seemed that their little group had drawn a lot of attention lately – but Kyle's stern glance sent them on their way quickly enough.

He turned back to his comrades, unsure of what to do, how to deal with Clark's behavior and Jacobson's ready acceptance of that behavior. Clark had always been a little odd, a little overemotional, but this was beyond even her. Crying over a piece of fabric?

He would have snorted in frustration and bemusement if it weren't for that small part of him which understood exact why she had broken down, why she was crying. It wasn't the handkerchief, it was what it represented.

It was beauty from before the war, when the world was still beautiful. It was hope that beauty would someday exist again, in some form, for all of them. It was a bond of friendship, love, something that only one human being could give to another.

He sighed glumly and, when Jacobson wrapped one arm around Clark and beckoned him to join them with the other, Kyle did. He curled up next to them as Clark's tears dried, and Wolfy sprawled out in front of them to add an extra layer of warmth.

He'd sleep well today, especially now that he didn't have to worry about Clark trying to kill him. That was enough to keep him content.

* * *

John wouldn't say that he was accustomed to perusing the hallways of his bunker. He had, in fact, gotten quite reclusive since he had become – what term did they all seem to be using? – a _legend_. After living a life under the radar and blending into the crowd, fame and notoriety were a hard pill to swallow.

But, after the victory at PC-56 this morning, he was having a good day and felt the need to be out and about.

Usually, in the early hours of dawn, when the rest of the camp was settling down for the day, Kyle would come visit him. Half sneaking hesitantly into John's quarters, as if he felt John didn't want him there, he would sometimes hardly even say a word while John instructed, demonstrated, and, occasionally, just prattled aimlessly.

Kyle didn't come everyday and John didn't expect him to, but he had been uncharacteristically scarce this past week. John, as much as he hated to admit it, was slightly worried.

Parental concern for your father; those child psychologists Child Services used to send him to would have had a field day.

He couldn't help it, though; Kyle was so young. At least, when he was that age, he had someone looking out for him – his mother, his foster parents, a T-800, _someone_. Kyle had no one other than the rest of the orphans.

Kyle would enter his room with a new cut splitting open his lip, dirty and waiting to get infected, he would almost be ready to tell the boy to stop scavenging and stay inside. He could feed him off the soldiers' rations and make sure he had plenty of good clothes to wear. He was the leader of the resistance, mankind's greatest and last hope; who would complain if he wanted to take care of one little boy? What point was there in having all this power, all this respect, if he couldn't help those he loved?

But, if Kyle didn't go out, he wouldn't learn enough and his mission back in time would fail miserably, if John would even still have the gall to send him.

Maybe he made a mistake in letting the boy into his life. Maybe he further compiled the mistake when he allowed himself to love him.

But he couldn't help that, either.

And now he wanted to see Kyle. He wanted to make sure he was okay, and he wanted to talk to him.

Hence he was strolling through the hallways.

Kyle wasn't hard to spot – he was the only person with a dog loyally following at his heels, despite John's advance warnings that dogs would eventually prove themselves to be indispensable. He was with another boy, at a booth in the traders' corridor. He was lost enough in the conversation that he didn't even notice John standing a few yards away.

John decided to take the opportunity to merely watch his father unawares. He had always wondered if the boy behaved differently than normal around him because of who he was.

"How about we light one and shove it up your ass and see?" the other boy – brunette, disheveled, and skinny – was saying, his tone laced with defiance.

John felt a curious eyebrow rise. Interesting friends Kyle kept.

"Pretty bold, you little dipshit," the trader replied harshly. "Want me to gut you where you stand, boy?"

John's head bobbed up, and he started at the man's comment. His forehead furrowed darkly; he never took too kindly to threats on his people, especially not on his kids. He was about to walk forward and give the traders a bit of an attitude adjustment, when Kyle spoke, his voice betraying nothing but confidence.

"There are people here." His eyes moved to capture the room as a demonstration, but he clearly wasn't looking at anything really, as he did not see John. "We watch our own."

The situation defused instantly. John was impressed; his father had the poise and self-assurance that signaled a natural leader waiting to emerge. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised – he knew Kyle well enough to suspect as much – but he had always been under the impression that his own leadership ability had come solely from his mother.

He leaned against the wall as the bartering commenced. Soon after, the boys, seemingly getting what they came for, left. John didn't move to follow, though, instead he came up to the traders to take in their appearance more directly.

They were ugly, but that was hardly the point. They were unfamiliar. John may not have known everybody at the bunker by name, but he knew a face when he saw it. These guys were new.

Interesting.

"Well, boy, what'll it be?" the lead trader asked, causing John to raise an eyebrow at the lack of respect in his tone. He must have not been recognized – understandable, since he wasn't currently wearing his uniform.

"Whatcha got?" He rummaged around the pile on the table, sorting through various clothes, electronic parts, and weapons. A good deal of Kyle's pipe bombs – made from the Connor family recipe – was there, but they weren't what caught John's interest.

"That'd be an Ithaca Thirty-Seven." The old man gave him a foul smile, smirking back up at his companions. John had picked up the shotgun, noticing from its weight that it was fully loaded. "Manual, pump, holds four rounds under the barrel." John turned the gun on its side, looking where the trader had indicated.

"This is an Eighty-Seven, actually," John corrected. Not that it made much of a difference.

"My, my, this one knows his guns," the trader said as John put the shotgun down and picked up a handgun. "My favorite. Smith and Wesson Nine-Oh-Eight, nine millimeter. Semi-automatic, nine rounds, aluminum and carbon steel frame. Thing's so small a kid could use it."

"These guns are only good at killing humans," John pointed out. "They won't work against the machines."

"Well," the trader replied, narrowing his eyes. "Sometimes that's what you need."

John bit his lip, working out what he should do next. Technically the traders had done nothing wrong – trading guns, or anything else, in and of itself wasn't against the rules here – but he still didn't like the idea of men with this much firepower being in his bunker. He looked around, noting that the men standing on the head trader's right appeared dangerous enough. Odd though: all he had on his left was a small girl. John paused, focusing his attention on her for the moment.

She was surprisingly pretty and young and, well, somewhat clean.

She was also near tears.

"Oh, you like her?" the old man asked, perceiving John's confusion as interest. "She'll run you more than those two guns combined, but, trust me, it'll be worth it."

Training met with instinct. His heart barely beat once and the 9mm was tucked in his pants behind his back. In the next beat the shotgun was in his hand and pumped, ready to fire.

The men hadn't even had the chance to move in response before he had their leader lined in his sights.

"I wouldn't so much as blink if I were you," John threatened, his tone lower and colder than usual. "Hands where I can see them."

The traders, the woman included, wisely obeyed. He kept the barrel of the gun pointed at the leader sitting at the table, but his attention was mainly with the man's bodyguards. Thankfully none of them moved. He gripped the shotgun gun firmly in his right hand, tucking the butt tightly against his shoulder and leaving his left free. Now that he thought about it, he should have just stayed with the 9 mm – it would have been easier to handle.

He reached into his belt pocket and pulled out his walkie-talkie, setting it to the main comm. channel.

"This is Connor," he said into the radio, his eyes never leaving the traders. "I need all available sentries in corridor five for civilian incident. Over." With practiced ease, he put the walkie-talkie away and held the shotgun once more in a two-handed grip. "Girl."

The woman looked up from her fixed gaze on the floor, tears freely falling down her cheeks.

"Are you being held by these men against your will?" John asked when he was sure he had her attention.

Her only response was an emphatic nod.

"You're welcome to stay with us," he told her, his voice softening slightly. "Food and water are provided if you decide to work." He paused. "Sexual favors are not reimbursable here." Another, almost cheerful nod. "Go to corridor three and get yourself entered into the Registrar. Now."

The woman didn't need to be told twice. She got up and broke into a run, leaving the traders without a second glance. The head trader watched her go with narrowed eyes.

"Perhaps you are unaware," John continued when the man turned his angry gaze back on him, "that slavery has been strictly forbidden by the Allied Collusion of Survivors Act."

"Survivors Act?" the man sneered. "What, did everyone get together over rat stew and put it to a vote? And whatta going to do about it, anyway? Put me prison?"

"No," John replied. He lowered the shotgun as a dozen of his troops surrounded the table. They covered the area completely, allowing the traders no chance at escape or defense. "Sergeant," he said, turning to the uniformed man at his right side. "Escort these gentlemen outside."

"What the hell!" the trader yelled, his cool finally breaking. "It's the middle of the day! We'll be killed! This is murder." He made a move to stand up, but the sergeant edging closer with his rifle pointed directly at his forehead ended the movement.

"Well within my rights under the Act," John said calmly. "You should read it sometime. Fascinating, sometimes contradictory document." He turned to leave, trusting his troops to handle the situation.

"Sir?" the sergeant said, causing him to stop. "What about their property?"

"Allow them to take it with them," John ordered, glancing back with distaste at the traders. "We are not thieves."

At the soldier's nod, he walked away, barely noticing that the shotgun was still in his hand and the 9 mm still tucked in his pants. He wasn't really surprised that the traders didn't complain about it, and he wasn't really in such a generous mood as to give the guns back.

They were as good as dead, he knew, and allowing them to keep their stuff was a matter of principle rather than of practicality. They wouldn't be needing shotguns where they were going, anyway – like John said, they wouldn't work against the machines.

Besides, he could use them.

* * *

**Mat: **I'm horrible at writing action. Well, maybe not _horrible_, but I certainly couldn't write a whole story revolved around it, I like character. Plus I'd personally find it boring. But I'm a strange one :-p You know I am a bad person, though, because I confess to not having seen T3 yet. I've read the screenplay, hence the clearly not dead Barrera reference :-p Teehee, I honestly couldn't tell you where Matt came from, but that was always his name, even when I was just using his last name. Laney, I must confess, came from this teenybop movie (_She's All That_) that my roommate was watching while I was writing. I figured that Clark's mother would have been at the right age to fangirl that movie when it came out and name a kid that. It's kind of a neat name …

**Ghostwriter: **Thanks!

**LeiaNaberrieOrgana: **Thanks. Can't say I've ever seen it, either. Though I have enjoyed the fics that feature one or the other. Originally, I was going to do just Kyle's childhood, but what fun would that be? The awkwardness of growing up combined with the awkwardness of raising your own father. Throw in a post-apocalyptic war land, and you have fanfic fun for all ages (well, T+ at least :-p). I haven't read any HP books, or seen very many of the movies, but, what I've seen of it, I do like their chemistry :-D


	7. A Little Training

The sweat was dipping past his headband, down to his eyebrows. He blinked, hoping it wouldn't cloud his vision. He repositioned his knife, turning the long blade parallel to his forearm, and waited.

His opponent was one of Connor's men, a soldier by the name of Captain Perry. He was good, elite, the best of the best. And he was teaching Kyle how to be the best, too.

"Don't stall, boy," Perry hissed, reproaching. He jumped forward a few feet, his own blade mere inches from Kyle's. The blades met with a sharp shriek, and Kyle was forced to back away. "You won't win a fight by avoiding it."

There were a few barely concealed chuckles from the children sitting on the sidelines, meant, probably, to break Kyle's concentration. He wouldn't fall for it. He needed to defend, to figure out the pattern of Perry's movements.

He sidestepped as Perry attacked again, bringing his knife up to counter and push away Perry's. He turned as he pushed and was instantly ready to defend once more.

"Wimp," someone shouted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a fluff of pink move as Clark's hand swatted at the culprit – she still liked that handkerchief apparently. Connor had always taught him to pay attention to all his surroundings, not just his current antagonist; you never knew when seemingly harmless pile of rubble would transform into a mini-HK.

Not that a terminator would ever come at you with anything other than a plasma rifle, but Connor had long since ordered that every potential recruit be taught all the basic combat maneuvers, both hand-to-hand and armed.

Kyle had always relished these opportunities. Like this, his mind was completely in tune with his body, and his thoughts were utterly focused, his head utterly clear.

Like this, the dreams and the memories wouldn't haunt him.

They were getting worse, it seemed, bad enough for Clark to have woken him up this afternoon. He was glad that she was no longer angry with him over the haircut, because he needed her right then. She had talked to him softly, mindlessly, until he had drifted off to sleep again. She had advised him to go to the doctor, saying that he could probably help, but Kyle wasn't so convinced.

They were his to deal with, and he didn't feel much like sharing his most personal thoughts with someone he didn't really trust. The only people he trusted were Connor, Jacobson, and Clark. And only Connor and Clark completely.

Connor didn't know about the dreams, though. It was a weakness Kyle would rather the great leader not be aware of. And he was certain that they would go away eventually, anyway.

War, he had learned, affected people differently. Some became more needy, more emotional, more desperate for human acceptance. Some withdrew into themselves, separating from the rest of humanity and keeping others at a respectful distance. Clark was an example of the former, he the latter, probably because the vast divergence between their two experiences.

Clark didn't really remember her parents. Nor had she ever been captured by the machines and put into a camp. She had been found salvaging for food by a resistance scout team when she was eight. She knew how to speak, she knew how to get food, yet she didn't remember how she had learned to do either. The doctor had said such things were quite common, that she could spend the rest of her life not knowing.

Kyle, on the other hand, remembered, dreamed about everything. The slight line that curved around his mother's lips when she smiled. How his little sister would always beg his father to carry her on his back. The whimpering of his baby sister when he tried to shove her into an empty bag, hoping to hide her from the machines. The shouts of his father near the end, and the screams of his mother.

He envied Clark, to say the least, and wondered where, if at all, John and Sarah Connor had fallen on the scale. He bet Sarah Connor never had nightmares. Someday soon, he wouldn't either.

He was distracted again, thinking about Sarah Connor's face for the briefest of moments. The air was sucked out of his lungs as Perry unexpectedly kicked him in the stomach. He gulped, fighting for breath, as he went down. Perry was on him in an instant, knife at the ready, as if this wasn't mere practice.

Kyle wasn't going to take the chance that Perry was only testing his reflexes. Some soldiers, he had found out early on, got so caught up in the duel that they forgot they were sparring with children. The superior weight, muscle, and skill could sometimes prove deadly to a small opponent.

On instinct, Kyle flipped his torso around into a roll and swept-kicked Perry down – the older man wasn't guarding his stance as well as he should have been. Rising to his knees, Kyle threw his entire bodyweight into stopping Perry's oncoming knife. He had the advantage of gravity and position, but the soldier was still stronger. It looked to be a draw.

Their eyes locked, Kyle's filled with an equal measure of worry and determination, Perry's with nothing but cool appraisal and clear sanity. So he _was_ only testing him.

They came to a silent understanding and let go at the same time. The fight over, Kyle moved to stand but was stopped by Perry's hand on his shoulder.

"He must be proud of you," Perry whispered softly, his voice filled with something that Kyle could only liken to respect.

"Who?" Kyle asked, puzzled.

"Your … I mean," Perry said, taken aback and suddenly looking as confused as Kyle was. "Aren't you…" He trailed off and diverted his eyes when Kyle didn't reply. "Never mind, kid. Good work." He stood and looked at the rest of the recruits, completely ignoring Kyle. "I think we all learned the lesson that keeping an eye out on every part of your opponent is important – especially his legs." There was a hint of laughter from the younger kids. "Anyone else want to try?"

Several hands raised and Clark came forward, ready to try her luck. Kyle was done for the morning and could think of nothing more than getting some sleep, so he didn't bother to stay and watch. Clark would probably do well enough.

A familiar figure came to join him as he reached for his shirt – he had taken it off to save it from getting even dirtier or more sweat-soaked. It was Connor, looking prim yet messy at the same time, as usual. His expression was unreadable.

Kyle gulped. He hadn't ever seen him there before. And, of all fights, today's wasn't exactly the one he would have wanted Connor to see.

He hastened to put on his shirt as Wolfy came protectively to his side. The dog normally loved John Connor, but he could always tell when Kyle was under stress or needed comfort.

"What were you thinking about?" Connor asked, folding his arms around his chest.

"Nothing, sir," Kyle answered softly.

"It must have been a special nothing to not have seen that leg coming," Connor noted dryly. Kyle felt his cheeks grow red, remembering what – or better, _whom_ – he had been thinking about. "All the same. The fight was fine. You made a mistake, but you recovered. That's what's important."

Kyle nodded dumbly. Connor gestured loosely with his hand for Kyle to follow as he walked out of the training grounds.

Kyle sighed mentally and trotted behind him, forgetting about going to sleep this morning. They walked through the familiar quarters; various people moved out of the way as Connor passed by them, making the walk that usually took five minutes only three.

"I have some new toys for you," Connor was saying as they ducked into a narrow corridor, which opened to another large room. Kyle glanced around. There wasn't anything there, just one really pitted wall on the far side. Empty otherwise. "Welcome to the shooting range. Not much, but it gets the job done."

Connor left him standing at the entrance and gathered some guns leaning against the nearby sidewall. Kyle peered at them, curious and having never seen anything quite like them.

"Meet the Smith and Wesson nine millimeter," Connor said, holding up the smaller gun, which barely looked like it could hold a charge let alone a pulse pack. "And the Featherlight Ithaca shotgun." He raised the bigger, more powerful looking weapon.

He handed Kyle the 9 mm, which was surprisingly heavy. Kyle examined it, trying to figure out where the charger went.

"It's not a pulse pistol; it's projectile," Connor explained, putting the shotgun down to rest beside his feet. "This is what we used before Skynet built plasma rifles." He pulled out a small rectangle from the pack at his waist. "This is a clip, it holds the bullets – the projectiles – and the explosives that the gun needs to fire. You load it into the grip. Try it."

Kyle did, finding that the clip fit right into the small gun. Connor then came around to his side, demonstrating how to hold the weapon properly – with both hands, legs apart, and arms straight. He touched his shoulders gently, forcing them to square. Kyle stiffened further at the touch, but Connor didn't seem to notice.

"My mother taught me on a gun like this when I was about your age," Connor said. "I swear, that woman knew more about guns than anyone. Gun like this would just … I don't know, become a part of her body. It was amazing." Kyle glanced up at his mentor, subconsciously absorbing the information. "We lived in Mexico at the time. She scared the hell outta most of the _señors_ in the south, let me tell you."

Connor ran his hand along Kyle's arm, correcting his angles and pushing his wrists closer together. "Heavy, huh?" Kyle nodded. "Don't worry, you'll grow into the weight."

He stepped behind him, resting his own hands on Kyle's, and pointed the barrel of the gun towards the damaged wall.

"These things have a lot more kickback than the plasmas," he instructed. "You'll need to keep your elbows locked and your muscles taunt, okay? Squeeze the trigger, don't pull. Slowly."

Kyle did, and almost fell back at the shockwave. Connor's strong hands continued to hold his, stopping him from losing his balance. Kyle blinked quickly, his ears still ringing from the loud blast. There was a fresh hole in the wall, a small radius of cracks forming around it. Lamely, a single piece of concrete chipped off and fell to the floor.

Connor let him go, and Kyle pulled his arm back to get a better look and a reappraisal of the gun.

"Pretty cool, huh?" Connor asked, bending over to pick up a small copper cylinder. Kyle could only nod. "This is called a cartridge. It holds the bullet. If they're in good condition, sometimes you can reuse them. I'll show you how sometime."

He took the gun back, handing over the cartridge in return. Kyle studied it while Connor tucked the gun into the belt of his uniform.

"They aren't great against the machines, I'll admit," Conner continued, smiling. "But, damn if they aren't fun as hell. Pretty good stopping power, though, especially the shotgun. We'll try that next. Sound like a plan?"

Kyle nearly smiled.

It took him one whole clip on the 9 mm and six rounds on the shotgun to learn how to hold the gun steady. Doing that marked the end of their little practice session, and Connor let him go with a proud smile and a pat on the back.

_This was definitely better than books_, Kyle thought silently.

* * *

**Ghostwriter:** Thanks! Yeah, I think John would be kind of cool like that…

**MizJoely: **Thanks, glad you liked :-D And, man, I'm I going to need that luck ;-)

**Mat:** Well, I figured I needed to put in at least one John being cool moment. I'm glad you think the chapters still have some sort of unity to them. I think this is probably the first major snapshot fic I've ever worked on and so keeping things together has been an interesting attempt. The whole Allied Survivors thing sort of popped up. What we see of the future in 1 and 2 and the end of 3 shows a world that is chaotic but that the humans still are able to form some sort of society. And societies have to have at least some rules, no matter how divided or primitive they are. I can just imagine John sitting at Crystal Peak at the beginning of the war working out little details about how to house survivors, the freedom of trade, and what could be done with criminals. I think they would come up with something that would protect the good of humanity before the rights of the individual. The T3 screenplay perhaps isn't out, but I found a dialogue script, don't remember where, though ….

**Laura: **Thanks!

**LeiaNaberrieOrgana:** Yep, we can almost expect things like that to happen in wars. The gun? Oh, fun stuff, fun stuff … ;-)


	8. Dupe

He supposed it shouldn't have surprised him that Kyle took to guns like a fish to water, even if, when he made the comparison, Kyle didn't quite get the simile. The only things that had swum this past decade were mosquito larvae and tadpoles, but John couldn't think of a better way to describe Kyle's ability.

Even his mother would be impressed; maybe that was one of the things she fell in love with.

He leaned against the wall, watching Kyle from the shadows of the shooting range – comfortable as he normally was in the dark and out of the way. Kyle had noticed him when he came in, but had done nothing more than briefly glance in his direction before he continued with his practice.

That was good; they had worked on Kyle's attentiveness to his surroundings ever since the boy had overlooked John's presence when he was negotiating with those unsanctioned traders.

He emptied a clip into the wall without even blinking once, hitting the crudely drawn target every time with pinpoint accuracy. He had a growth spurt in these past few months, making his usually overly baggy rag clothes appear to almost fit him. He could hold and shoot the 9 mm with one hand now, too, using the other to reload the gun the second the bullets ran out.

Day by day Kyle was becoming more of a man, John realized with a small start. He still had probably a decade or so left before the main event – 2029, was it? – but John still felt as though time was slipping through his fingers even as he stood watching his father train.

He didn't want to do it; he didn't want to send him back.

_Will it affect your decision to send him here, knowing that he is your father? If you don't send Kyle, you could never be. God, a person could go crazy thinking about this._

He fought the feeling of sudden, but not unfamiliar desperation, sliding against the wall into a comfortable crouch as Kyle decided to switch back to the shotgun. Wolfy, probably frustrated with the lack of attention from his master, came to John's side and nudged his hand for a pet.

John obliged, stroking his head. Wolfy looked enough like Max – a German shepherd he had when he was ten – to stir up some nostalgia. He had left that dog at his foster parents' house after the T-1000 attacked. Todd and Janelle had been killed, but he was never really sure what happened to Max. He had always hoped that his best friend, Tim, had adopted him.

He must have stopped petting momentarily, because Wolfy rubbed his snout against his palm. John smiled slightly, pondering what the dog smelled when he sniffed. They could detect terminators by scent alone, the dogs, and John had once heard that people related to each other shared a certain smell.

He wondered if Wolfy knew John and Kyle were family. If so, he'd be the only one in the bunker besides John and the other dogs that did.

It was a lonely thought.

He looked up as Kyle wildly missed the target, his round buried deeply a few feet away. John opened his mouth to issue a reprimand for such uncharacteristically poor aim, when he saw, in the periphery of his view, a soldier entering the range.

Kyle fired again. The round ended up somewhere near the ceiling. Was the soldier's presence making him nervous? John had never seen him such. He was about to get up and ask, but the soldier hadn't yet seen him ducked away in the shadows. John decided to wait, to see how it played out.

The boy put down the shotgun as the soldier came to his side. He grabbed the 9 mm out of his belt, but paused before getting ready to fire.

"Hello, Captain Perry," Kyle said, tilting his head in a slight nod.

Perry. John mentally went through his troop roster. Perry, Richard, around 25, assigned to the 131st, high recommendations from his commander, probably would be promoted to lead soon. His face was familiar enough: he was the one sparring with Kyle not too long ago.

Good man, then. John had yet to implement an official training program for the next generation of resistance fighters, and probably never would. There was no way to have anything like the boot camps of old – there were neither safe places to locate them nor the manpower to run them, as all the trained soldiers were needed out on the front lines. So training took place in the off hours, during the day, when the soldiers were free. It was strictly volunteer-based – no one was forced to work with the kids – and they weren't given any extra compensation for the service.

That there were always more than enough volunteers was a testament to the magnanimity of the human spirit.

"Reese," Perry greeted in return. He peered at the 9 mm. "Whatcha got there?"

"Projectile handgun," Kyle told him.

"Well, now," Perry said, interested. "I haven't seen one of those since right after Judgment Day. Where did you get it?"

Kyle cocked his head and lied more fluidly than John would have guessed him capable of. "I found it."

John narrowed his eyes, not necessarily angry yet, but definitely confused.

"It work?" Perry asked.

"Yeah," Kyle said. "See?" He turned and fired at the wall again, this time not only missing the target, but also letting the kickback rock his entire arm.

What the hell? He hadn't done that in weeks.

"Nice." Perry paused, considering the weapon as Kyle held it out to him. He put his hands on his hips. "The other children might have spread the word around, but did you know that I've been trying to collect Pre-Judgment Day relics? Would you care to trade for it, maybe?"

"Trade?" Kyle repeated, thoughtful. "Well, I've really been wanting one of those knives we've been using to spar with, but, I don't know." He hit the ground with the tip of his toes, as if unsure of himself, and looked down.

"That sounds fair," Perry said, clearly ready to barter.

"But…" Kyle said softly. "I don't think you'll find it very useful. You don't even know how to use it. It's hard."

John felt his lips slowly parting in absolute bewilderment. He made the conscious effort to keep his mouth closed as the conversation continued. Even Wolfy, tongue loose and hanging as he stared at his master, managed to look confused.

"Trust me, I can use it," Perry replied. "Probably better than you can, kiddo."

"I doubt it," Kyle said boastfully, raising his head to meet the soldier's gaze. "I've been practicing for weeks. You wouldn't be able to beat me."

As John himself would have done after seeing Kyle's recent shooting, Perry stifled a laugh.

"Okay, look," Perry said. "Let's make a deal and see who's the better shot. We each fire three shots into that target there. If I get closer to the center, you give me the handgun in exchange for the knife. If you get closer, I'll just let you have the knife – my own, even – for free and you can keep the gun. Sound good?"

Kyle bit his lip and furrowed his brows like he always did when he was working something out. The deal was a bad one – even in the days when 9 mms were mass-produced, their cost ran six or seven times higher than even the most well-made knife. Kyle, although he had been born long after the factories had shut down, must have realized this.

"All right," the boy said. "You go first." He handed the gun over.

Perry shot his three rounds. The first was unsteadied because of the kickback, but still within the outer lines of the target. He righted himself on the second, moving the bullet a few inches closer to the center. On the third, his performance was adequate, close enough for John to let him off the hook for the rest of the day had he been training him, but not quite a bull's-eye.

He smiled tightly, triumphantly, and gave the 9 mm to Kyle, hilt first.

Kyle aimed, fired, and, again, didn't even blink. It was hard to decide which of the three was the more perfect shot and, in this case, also unnecessary, as they had all beat Perry's.

He tucked the handgun back into his belt and reached out his now free hand to the Captain.

"Knife?" he asked innocently, his expression still bland as ever.

Perry looked at him, then at the target, then back at him, as if trying to solve some sort of master puzzle.

"You little shit," he finally said, reaching a conclusion.

"We had a deal," Kyle reminded him.

"You lied," Perry hissed, pointing an angry finger and stepping closer to the young boy.

"No, I didn't." Kyle's voice was cool, confident. "I told you that you couldn't beat me. And you didn't."

"Easy money, hey, kid?" John said, coming out of the shadows before the argument could become heated. Goods were always valuable, and disputes caused from them resulted in the most violence.

Perry jumped to attention, saluting crisply like the experienced soldier he was, but John could tell from the slight tremor in his right hand that Perry wasn't exactly expecting him.

Kyle, for his part, wrapped his arms around his torso and tried to look innocuous. His sharp, perceptive gaze, however, would always make that impossible.

"At ease, Captain," John commanded the soldier, who immediately relaxed just enough to appear somewhat less distressed. John nodded at him and turned his attention back to Kyle. "Now, I was a boarder-line juvvie as a kid and I pulled some cons. And I saw all kinds of different kids doing the same – rich, poor, white, black – but I swear I didn't think you had it in you." His words were strained, fluctuating between disappointed and impressed.

As a child, John's life with his mother and the subsequent string of foster homes had hardened him as much as it would anyone. In the years he moved through the System, he had felt almost justified in his petty crime – the world had given him shit, what was he supposed to give back, exactly? Kyle, on the other hand, had never seemed callused by his surroundings. He continued to appear so innocent, wide-eyed, and curious despite everything he had been through.

Perhaps, though, John realized, he was already jaded, and John had only refused to see it until now.

"Explain why you thought this would be a good idea," he ordered when Kyle did not rise to defend himself or even bother to look very guilty. "Especially while I was watching." That probably confused him the most – why would Kyle pull such a trick when he was in the room? Did he hope get away with it?

"He suggested the trade," Kyle said plainly.

"After you intentionally misaimed," John added.

"He acted without taking the time to gage my ability, and so he underestimated me. How is that my fault?" There was only a hint of a pre-teenaged boyish whine in his voice.

"You deceived him." Amusement was starting to creep into John's features as Perry shifted his weight from foot to foot, still playing the part of the obedient little soldier and remaining silent.

"Sir," Kyle said. "Didn't you always say that our ability to outwit the machines is the best skill we have? If I were a terminator or an HK and the Captain encountered me and only put the same amount time into studying my movement as he just did, he'd be, well …" He didn't finish, just shrugged – the first nervous movement he had shown.

"He'd be plasma vapor," John concluded. "Can't disagree. Can you, Captain?" He looked at the unfortunate Perry, who was doing his best to not look completely mortified.

"No," he said softly. "Is that an order to turn over the knife, Sir?"

"Not in the slightest," John replied. "I usually like to keep my nose out of stuff like this. I was just curious as to Reese's logic, there. Do whatever you want." He folded his arms across his chest and favored the pair – soldier and boy – with a grin, as if they were the butt of some grand joke.

Perry narrowed his eyes, glancing from his general to the orphan. Gritting his teeth, he handed over a long, sheathed field knife. Kyle took it gingerly.

"Are you sure, Captain Perry?" he asked, looking naive once more. "Because I understand if–"

"No, kiddo, you're right." Perry shook his head. "I shouldn't have jumped the gun …" He snorted a laugh at his own unintentional pun.

Kyle nodded briefly, giving a slight glance in John's direction.

"The sun's setting," the boy finally said after a moment's pause, as if he were wearing a watch. "Bye." He took off in a jog, just like John used to do when he knew he had narrowly avoided some huge punishment. It was all John could do not to scream 'yeah, but no TV for a week,' after him that he didn't even bother to point out that Kyle still had the 9 mm in his belt. Let him keep it; he had earned it after that devious little scheme he had concocted, and John had never needed it, anyway.

"Interesting choice, Captain," John said, turning his attention back to the still obviously humiliated soldier.

"He was right, Sir," Perry responded. His voice was tinted with respectful discipline, but John could sense he wanted to say more.

"What's on your mind, soldier?"

"He's the best kid we got, Sir," Perry admitted after a short lull. "Better than the teenagers, even. I thought he was just good for the physical stuff, but he's looking like he's got a mind for tactics, too. He's even got that dog trained better than the two others you sent down to Recon. No one knows how. He's looking like he's going be one of your lieutenants by the time he's my age."

Reese had only made it to the rank of sergeant, even though he was younger than Perry was now – at least according to the math – when he died, but John wasn't about to reveal that little fact.

"And this is a problem?" John surmised, deciphering the tone in the Captain's voice.

Perry sighed as if there was a tight weight on his chest. "Permission to speak freely, Sir?"

"Granted." John raised an eyebrow. This sounded important.

"There are rumors, Sir," Perry said, avoiding John's intense gaze. "I didn't start them; I don't know who did, but …" A pause and Perry was staring at his feet. "They say that he's yours, Sir. Your son, I mean."

"What?" It wasn't an angry exclamation, more like a word ridding on his breath as it was sucked out of his lungs.

"You spend a lot of time with him, Sir," Perry continued, looking as though he wished he were dead. "And … well … the resemblance … and, with his talent … got people talking."

John felt a headache pinching between his temples and he fought the urge to rub his eyes. It made sense; it was easy enough to put two and two together, and, in a place as small as the bunker, gossip was bound to spread...

He fought the urge to be sick.

"He isn't," he hissed softly, the resentment finally starting to show. "What the hell do they think I did? Cheat on my wife?"

"You keep him in the orphans' corridor," Perry supplied, knowing that his meaning would be understood.

"Goddamn it!" John found himself eying the shotgun still on the floor, trying to control his raging emotions and nausea. Shooting something sounded awful damn good right now. He started to pace.

"For what it's worth, Sir," Perry said, sinking away from his furious general. "Many don't believe it. They know you wouldn't do that to Lieutenant Brewster and you wouldn't leave your son in the corridor, even if he were illegitimate."

_No, just my father …_

"Sir," Perry continued as John finally palmed his forehead. "I didn't mean to be disrespectful. I–"

"No, Captain," John interrupted, waving his free hand dismissively as his head continued to pound. "Thank you for telling me this." He stopped walking and looked up, forcing himself to meet Perry's eyes with a sense of integrity he didn't quite feel. "I recognized Reese's talent when he first came here. I was helping him hone it in my free time, just like you and the other soldiers are with rest of the children. Nothing else." He didn't blink through the lie, noting with some irony the accuracy of Kyle's earlier statement. The human ability to deceive was quite the hallmark.

"Yes, Sir," Perry replied, attempting a sympathetic smile.

"Dismissed, Captain. I'm sure you have sentry duty."

_Just go away …_

"Sir." Perry saluted again. The look of relief was evident as he turned to leave, glad as he must be that this particular conversation was over.

John sighed, happy to be left alone in the blissfully empty shooting range. He bent over and began to pick up the spent cartridges that Kyle had forgot to collect. He could refill them tomorrow morning; maybe the task would wear out his mind enough to actually let him sleep.

He swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat and sincerely doubted it.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Yeah, I suck. I've had this post not only written, but beta read for well near a month. But I'm a lazy bum. It's in my nature, and one cannot fight nature. Unless you're a machine, perhaps. But that's beyond the scope of this fic. Thanks for the lovely feedback, I would like to reply as I always do, but my brain currently isn't functioning at that level (I had a three hour Master's exam on ancient Greek this morning, you see). So thanks for reading and double thanks for replying, as always. 


	9. Bad Night

"Where were you?" Clark hissed. She placed her hands on her hips and did her best to play the part of an irritated mother. "At this rate, we'll be the last team out."

Kyle shrugged in answer and immediately began to help Jacobson load their pack with supplies. The pack itself looked a little worse for wear – Clark had owned it as long as Kyle had known her – and the tools it carried fared no better.

"Holy crap, where'd you get that?" Jacobson asked, surprised and pointing to the knife now triumphantly laced onto Kyle's belt. He almost dropped the pack in excitement.

"Perry," he replied, allowing himself the moment of glory as he took the pack from Jacobson and swung it over his shoulder. The risk had been well worth the payoff; he had been eying that knife for weeks. He hadn't honestly known how either Connor or Perry were going to react, but he couldn't have asked for Perry to have set himself up better than in that shooting range – he had to take the chance.

"Please don't tell me you traded equipment for it," Jacobson said, sharing a worried glance with Clark.

Kyle did his best not to feel resentment at that. He was, after all, a pretty decent trader and always knew what, when, and where to trade. He hadn't brought home a bust deal yet. Clark and Jacobson were just on their toes, though, that was all; things had been even tighter than usual.

"Nope, got it for nothing." He gazed askew at Jacobson and willed the other boy to deduce his meaning.

"You swindled it out of him." Kyle and Clark certainly hadn't picked Jacobson for his stupidity. Nay, the boy was a lot brighter than he looked. "About time! That bastard has been hounding us for old junk for how long now? Gives us such shit in return, too. How did you do it?"

Kyle shrugged. "Long story." He began to help Clark with the wagon, leading their small party out of the bunker and into the night air. They climbed the steps, dragging the wagon quietly behind them, and paused to watch out for the familiar signs of battle in the distance. Lights speckled, flashing blue a few kilometers away.

"North, then?" Clark asked, tightening her bandana around her head.

"Looks like it," Kyle agreed. "At least we'll be heading towards something definite if we can't find anything else on the way."

Clark raised her eyebrow and favored him with a brief smirk, perhaps reminding him that, if they did have to walk all the way to the fighting in the north, it would be his fault. Other teams would have gathered the best salvage between here and there, leaving them no other choice but to move further out.

She didn't say anything about it, though, and, in fact, her face split into a grin a few seconds later. She skipped ahead of them as they walked, humming a tune and petting Wolfy as he passed.

Her moods, Kyle had long since discovered, seemed to turn in an instant. From patronizing, to bossy, to motherly, to bratty, to needy, to juvenile all with in the space of a trip through the corridors. He wondered if she started bleeding – her age was right enough, for all he knew; he'd heard that women acted funny when they did. So far he hadn't seen any signs of it, and hoped he wouldn't for a while yet. He knew that many girls, when they started, immediately began to reproduce – babies were important enough to warrant extra rations – and he didn't think Clark would be exactly useful while pregnant.

"That wasn't all you got out of him, huh?" Jacobson, walking beside him, suddenly said. Kyle paused, looking to where the other boy's eyes had drifted. The handgun was sticking out of his waist, and his shirt bottom was bunching up around the butt.

Kyle wrinkled his forehead. He hadn't meant to take Ithat/I, only the knife. Sure, it always had figured into his plans to dupe Perry, who, incidentally, was a far worse shot than he imagined himself to be, but Kyle had never intended to keep the gun past the length of time Connor allowed him to use it. He had ran out of the range so quickly that he forgot he had it on him.

Kyle felt his throat tighten. Connor was the most observant person he knew, and he would notice rather promptly that one of his guns was missing. What would he think?

Oh, Kyle really didn't need to ask himself that question; he already knew the answer: he would think he'd been swindled, just like Perry had. That Kyle had pulled a slight of hand when he thought Connor wasn't looking. That Kyle had tried to deceive him.

"It's not like that," Kyle told Jacobson, his present substitute for the envisioned Connor. He had never seen the man disappointed at him before, but his gut twisted at the mental image of what he might look like – weary with a hint of sadness, like Kyle's father once had. "It's Connor's," he explained. "He let me borrow it, and I forgot to give it back."

"You and Connor," Jacobson began, looking darkly at Wolfy.

"Don't be mean," Clark warned. She slowed to walk in line with the boys, eager mediate as usual.

"I'm just saying–"

"I don't really want to hear it," Kyle interrupted. Besides repeating the gossip of the week, Jacobson often hounded him for any potential extras Connor might have given him during their last meeting.

None of the orphans quite believed that patronage from the great John Connor resulted in little else beyond a few books and a dog. There had to be food, or clothes, or … something … that Kyle was getting. After all, wasn't Connor in control of everything? Couldn't he give and take supplies at will? And, if he could, why wouldn't he share some with his pet orphan?

Everyone asked the question at one point or another, and a few had decided to search Kyle themselves.

He had been alone when it happened – walking back from the practice room – but even one or two extra friends wouldn't have been much help. Thankfully, he was still in good enough condition to work afterward, but he had to lie to Connor about the various cuts and bruises, saying that there had been a small turf battle. He didn't want Connor to stop talking to him or training him, and he just might have if he knew the animosity their relationship caused. Luckily Connor understood enough about the orphans to buy the story.

A few mouths after the incident, Kyle had returned the favor to gang's leader, and no one had touched him since.

Jacobson, as much as he pestered both Clark and Kyle, knew when either of them was pushed beyond his or her limits of tolerance. He kept silent as they walked.

The night wore on as they went, but the bright flashes to the north seemed to get no closer. In fact, they only seemed to dim – marking the signs that the battle was dying down. Tiring, they finally happened upon a pile of half-picked apart T-300s. Clark dropped the wagon's handle wearily and headed towards them.

"This is about as good as we're going to get," she declared, giving a halfhearted kick to one of the arms. It moved and rolled away from the rest of the parts, completely severed from its terminator chaise. "If we go any further, we might not make it back before sunrise."

"I say we don't take the chance," Kyle said. He bent over one of the more complete models.

Jacobson looked at them both, possibly debating rather to complain or to obey. Glancing off momentarily to the east, as if expecting the sun to appear before him, he nodded blankly and couched next to Kyle.

"Its capacitors and CPUs are still intact," Kyle informed them, lifting a leg for inspection.

"Good enough," came Jacobson, voice gruff.

They set to work – Kyle removing the central CPU while Clark and Jacobson detached the major capacitors that powered each of the various joints in the steel alloy limbs.

Tweezers and a small blade in hand, Kyle cut each of the wires holding the CPU in place, careful not to damage the unit itself but worrying little about the casing surrounding it. After a few minutes, his knees began to protest, and he changed positions. He paused from his task when the gun's barrel poked him in the thigh.

"I thought that was a weapon," Clark said when he removed the gun from his pants and placed it in the pack beside them.

"It is," Kyle admitted. "But it won't do us much good out here. And there are only two bullets left, anyway. I don't have any more."

Uncharacteristically, Jacobson made no comment at Kyle's apparent lack of preparation. As if surprised by this behavior, Clark looked up at him. Kyle saw, barely within the frame of his view, Clark's curious expression turn darker. Her bottom lip began to tremble as Kyle slowly lifted his head.

"Just a scout?" Jacobson hissed as a small, rounded mini-HK hovered ever closer. Kyle could hear the other boy's rough swallow and could feel the hairs of his own neck start to tingle.

"Can't tell," Clark whispered, her body trying to decide rather to freeze or shake. Kyle narrowed his eyes to judge if the HK had weapons capacity or not. "It's too far away."

"Let's hope it stays that away," Kyle grunted softly. "Keep still." There was silent agreement among the three children, and they remained motionless, as taught by years of training and necessity. Wolfy, however, had a different idea in mind.

He started with a low growl that quickly developed into an angry, ear splitting bark. The HK turned its attention to the dog as Wolfy trotted up and positioned himself in a stiff stance, planting his paws firmly apart.

Kyle held his breath, watching his dog face the HK. The machine only circled Wolfy, fixing a bright red laser completely over his entire body. It was examining him, probably looking for the tell-tell signs that made a living creature human. If it didn't find any, it wouldn't attack – Skynet was only interested in terminating people at the moment. And that made Wolfy the perfect distraction.

"We run, head south." His words were only a little louder than his current breath. The other two made the slightest inclination of their heads to show that they understood and agreed. Kyle readied himself, mentally tightening the muscles in his legs for a quick jump up. He favored Wolfy with one last, worried glance. The dog should be able to catch up or, at the very worst, find his way back to camp in the morning. He gripped their supply pack roughly with his right hand. "One, two," he whispered, allowing his companions time to prepare themselves. "Three."

They shot up in unison and ran in the direction opposite of the mini-HK as fast as their legs could carry them. Kyle could vaguely hear Wolfy's continued bark, as his heartbeat became the dominant sound ringing through his ears. He jumped over a pile of machine parts, keeping a loose balance on the remainder of some crushed skulls, before ducking past some larger metal scraps that may have once formed the siding of a building.

Clark was close on his heels, her breath coming in grasps either from fear or exertion, while Jacobson kept his pace at Kyle's side. He looked back, daring to back his stride. The HK had turned to their direction and had picked up speed.

"On to us," he hissed in between breaths.

"Split," Clark ordered, near shouting.

They broke apart. Kyle banked sharply right, towards a burnt out HK tank shell, while Clark went left, diving into the ruins on the other side of the path before them. Jacobson, the fastest of the trio, kept heading straight to their original goal – the towering remains of a building – hoping to draw off the HK there. One child could hide him or herself much better than three.

Kyle buried himself in the rubble, squeezing down into the small gaps formed by the protruding steel frames. He ducked further and stilled as he saw the red beam scanning on his right. The HK probe rushed by along the trajectory they were just on, giving the surrounding area the most cursory of inspections as it chased after Jacobson.

The scanner whizzed just mere inches from Kyle's prone body, completely missing him as he held his breath. He remained still, allowing only the smallest sighs of relief to escape his lips. He waited for several minutes as an odd silence encompassed him.

He couldn't hear Wolfy barking, the HK hovering, or the others moving around. He crawled out, staying low to the ground, and headed in the direction he had last seen Clark leap. There was the slightest of clanks as he shifted his weight in between the scraps, but it was hardly any more noise than the area would generate by settling normally.

He positioned the pack snug on his back and crouched, using his hands to maintain balance as he crawled forward. He passed over a sheet of steel, which resounded loudly, wobbling, when he placed his weight on it. He stopped dead in his tracks, but it was already too late.

The mini-HK appeared before him, rising above the ruins below. Its red beam crossed over Kyle, scanning him for that certain physiology. He barely had a second to blink, blinded as he was by the bright light, and back away. He hissed fearfully when his back collided with a piece of plating and he could no longer move. Test confirmed, the HK produced a small plasma cannon out of the top of its probe.

Kyle's heart beat wildly as the red, infrared dot fixed itself between his eyes. He refused to close his eyes, even though he knew his bravery would do no good. He took a moment to be grateful, at least, that he had lived as long as he had. He only wished he could have explained himself to John Connor and seen him once more before he died.

But, as if the thought of Connor alone had created an incredible twist of fate, the light left his forehead, turning towards the figure jumping at it. Wolfy had leapt, taking down the HK in a fierce blow and tackling it to the ground. The HK squealed loudly, no match for Wolfy, as the dog quickly ripped it apart with his teeth, leaving a trail of wires in his wake.

Connor definitely hadn't overestimated dogs' usefulness.

"Good boy, good boy," Kyle repeated in a rough whisper as he crawled out of the tank remains. The dog accepted a loving pat, his tongue hanging out and ready to lick his master as Kyle bent down to hug him. They stayed that way for a moment as Kyle calmed his nervous.

"Reese?" came Clark's soft voice. He looked him to see her walking towards him. Her clothes bore a few more rips than they had this morning, and her disheveled short hair had spilled out of her handkerchief, but she was otherwise okay.

"It's gone," he told her, standing up but still keeping a protective hand on Wolfy's back.

"Jacobson?" she asked, looking around as if she expected to see him standing near them.

"I don't know," he admitted. She nodded, and, without bothering to complete the conversation, they both headed towards the building Jacobson had run into. It was large and the walls – what was left of them, at least – echoed their steps as they entered. Wolfy's claws even created a soft click against the concrete as they walked.

"Jacobson?" Clark called faintly, still fearing that any noise would draw out another mini-HK. "Jacobson?" Kyle came up beside her, illuminating the area with the flashlight, focusing the light on various corners and cracks – anywhere a scavenger would automatically hide.

"Reese, Clark," came a quiet reply. Kyle instinctively moved the beam towards the sound. Jacobson was huddled in a corner, between the wall and a lose piece of steel.

"Jacobson," Clark said as she jogged up, sliding next to him on her knees. "Are you okay?"

"My ankle," he hissed, his voice clearly full of pain. "Sprained, I think. The HK?"

"Gone," Kyle confirmed. He sat down as Jacobson crawled out into the open, Clark offering him a steady hand to grip. He pulled his boot off, revealing a holey sock covering a swollen ankle.

Kyle rummaged through the bag, glad that he had thought to take it with him, and found a rolled ace bandage. As he applied it, Jacobson bit back a groan and held Clark's hand tighter.

"Do you think you can walk?" Clark asked.

"I don't know," Jacobson admitted with a sigh. "Maybe."

"Let's try," Kyle said, standing and offering his hand. Jacobson took it, and Kyle pulled him up, steadying him by putting his other hand on his shoulder.

"Shit, shit, shit, down," Jacobson wailed, no longer caring to stay quiet. He practically fell into Clark's waiting arms when he landed on the rough concrete.

"Guess that's a no," Kyle said, placing one hand on his hip. He walked back towards the building's entrance, looking outwards as a cold breeze fluttered through is hair. He sighed, working through their options. Coming up with a plan, he turned back to their small party.

"We can get the wagon," he could hear Clark saying. "It can't be more than a half mile away. Me and Reese can drag you with it."

"That's an idea," Kyle spoke before Jacobson could reply. "But we won't make it back to the bunker before dawn."

"Should we just carry him, then?"

"No, that would make for worse time."

"Are you proposing to leave me here, then?" Jacobson growled. Kyle and Jacobson had often had a few struggles here and there, both physical and verbal, with each testing the other's wits and no clear victor apparent. Despite their sometimes open hostility, they had long since agreed – a silent agreement, but an agreement nonetheless – that their strengths were more efficient pooled.

In that vain, Kyle merely rolled his eyes and scowled. "We stay the day here. Barricade in one of the deeper corridors. Sleep in shifts, pick up the wagon after dusk."

Clark nodded, looking relieved and slightly worried at the same time.

"We'll have to spend all tomorrow night getting back," Jacobson deduced. "Do you think they'll feed us?"

"Worry about that when we get there," Kyle ordered, bending down to hull Jacobson to his feet. The other boy grunted in pain. "Let's just concentrate on getting someplace we can't be seen."


	10. The Things Nightmares are Made of

**Author's Note:** I've finished writing this fic, and parts - now ten through thirteen - will be posted weekly, usually on Friday or Saturday, until completion. Thanks to everyone that is still reading :)

A word on Sarah Connor Chronicles: While it's an enjoyable series and I watch it, events it makes canon were not and will not be considered in this fic. At all. Sorry to disappoint if anybody was expecting Derek to pop out of the rubble at some point.

* * *

"_Just stay behind me. Keep walking, but stay behind me, okay?"_

_Kyle nodded, knowing that his father probably couldn't see the movement but being too afraid to actually speak._

_"… valley … shadow … death," someone was whispering behind, hissing the same words over and over again, but Kyle couldn't make out what he was saying exactly._

_He swallowed roughly and licked his dry lips. He didn't remember when the last time he drank anything. Water, especially clean water, was always scarce, but his family had never been this long without it before._

_Mini-HKs buzzed around their heads, keeping them in an orderly line as they continued their slow progression into the camp. Despite the fact that their numbers were well into the hundreds, it seemed that the band of human prisoners was not enough of a threat for terminators or HK tanks to be guarding them._

_The thought of running crossed his mind, not for the first time, but he quickly dismissed it once more. His feet hurt and, if they weren't bleeding already, they soon would be. He glanced sidelong at his mother, who looked miserable, disheveled, and more scared than he had ever seen her. Blood still stained her shirt, loose fitting now that she was no longer pregnant, but it seemed, to Kyle's relief, to have dried. He could make out the form of his newborn sister, still swaddled inside his mother's shirt. Either the machines hadn't noticed her yet or they just didn't care._

_They reached the front of the camp and came to a jolting stop. Kyle peered around his father to see a surprisingly small machine processing station. A rough claw was forcing his father's hand into some device, and his father was flinching at the contact, but otherwise not struggling. His spine did stiffen, though, as the machine emitted a harsh whirl. A second or two later, his father withdrew his arm, now red and blistered._

_Kyle instinctively stepped back, not wanting to place his hand anywhere near that thing. The HKs immediately hovered closer, to within a breath's distance, and a gentle push from his mother set him forward._

_He didn't give the claw the pleasure of forcing his hand anywhere, though, and thrust his whole arm into the device. There was a rush of fierce cold, stinging straight into his bones. Then there was heat, so hot that he could have sworn his flesh was being melted off. He tried to pull away, letting out a sharp bark of a scream while doing so, but the machine kept its grip._

_After what seemed like minutes, he was released. He stumbled forward to join his father, but his eyes never left his arm. It was red like he had merely been burnt, yet, when he looked closer, he noticed dark black lines running across the inside of his forearm._

_"Barcodes," his father growled as his sisters passed through. "The bastards think we're inventory."  
_

"_What?" Kyle asked, seeking clarification. His mother went through, doing a pretty good job of concealing the baby underneath the folds of the blanket draped around her shoulders. Kyle sighed in relief when the claw moved onto the person behind her without making a grab for the baby._

_"They want to track us, keep us in order," his father said. "Come on, we need to keep moving." His eyes wandered protectively over the lump in his wife's folds, but he didn't linger on it._

_"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil!" the man that was behind them previously finally shouted out. He, older than either of Kyle's parents, looked frail and weak. He backed up quickly, unbalanced, into the people behind him. They shuffled aside as the HKs honed in, not wanting to get involved or in the way. "This is the devil's work! Creatures of Satan! How can you stand there and be branded by his servants? Save your souls!"_

_Somebody in the line pushed him away as the HKs begun to circle him. He fell forward but quickly crawled to his feet. The HKs attacked, piercing him with blue plasma. He jaunted forward, past the bar-coding machine, and wobbled towards Kyle._

_Kyle backed away, but a few plasma shots to the man's back had knocked him the extra few feet needed to slam into Kyle. They tumbled into the muddy ground, Kyle squirming against the dead weight._

_And that's all the man really was now, dead, for he was no longer breathing. Kyle hissed in fear and shock as he felt the warm blood from the man's wounds covering him._

_"Getemoffme!" he screamed, desperately trying to push the corpse away. His father was there instantly, rolling the body off of him, and granting him just enough room to escape. Kyle crawled out, and into the waiting arms of his father, who was now crouched next to him._

_Kyle breathed a sigh of relief and closed his eyes all too soon for, when he opened them, he saw a blinding blanket of red. The HKs circled them now, preparing to fire._

_"But we didn't do anything!" his father was fruitlessly pleading, as if the machines could understand him._

_Kyle closed his eyes again, this time in fear, but the shot never came._

_Instead a baby started crying.  
_

"You need to stop doing that," Jacobson hissed as he opened his eyes. "You scream loud enough and the machines will find us, night or not."

"He can't help his dreams," he heard Clark say as he wiped the sweat off his brow.

"Is it night, then?" he asked, noting that the only light in the room was coming from Clark's flashlight. He remembered being able to see the slight hint of sunlight down the hall when he had taken his watch shift at noon.

"Yep," Clark answered. "We need to get going."

Kyle nodded in agreement, hoping that the movement would clear out the last remnants of the dream. His sister had died that day, all because his panicked scream had made her cry.

* * *

"Do you want to talk about it?" Clark asked after they left the shelter and picked up their trail from last night. Had it not been for the fact that they were being chased, Kyle would have almost berated himself for how obvious they had been last night. Small wonder the machines out this morning weren't able to track them down. "Reese?"

He merely glanced at her, putting all of his annoyance into one single expression. She furrowed her forehead in return. When did he ever want to talk about it? Clark was nice, but sometimes Kyle found her persistence grating.

"Fine," she said shortly, clearly hurt.

They had run farther than he had expected last night and, after ten minutes of walking in silence, they hadn't yet happened upon their wagon. Kyle took a moment to again be irritated at Jacobson. Was it so hard to run without tripping over anything? Sure, the boy was fast, but what good would that do when he couldn't keep his balance? He was a piss poor fighter, too, and practices with Perry were beginning to show it. Even Clark, smaller and slower, could take him down without much effort.

"I think we should look for a new third when we get back," he said seriously.

"Reese! No! How can you say that?" Clark cried. "He made a mistake. It was dark. Either one of us could have done the same thing. How would you feel if we decided to ditch you after you fell and hurt yourself?"

"After making you carry me back to the bunker, I'd understand," he told her flatly.

"Jeez, and I thought Jacobson was mean," she said, sighing. "No. He's too good with dismantling, anyway. I doubt you could suggest someone better, so get over it."

He favored her with a dirty look but said nothing.

"Hey," he said a few moments later, pausing them both in their trek. "Where is it?"

"Huh?"

"The wagon. This is the spot, but it's not here." He glanced around, taking in the familiar layout of the area, noting with some dejection that the terminator shells they had been working on last night were now picked completely clean. Wolfy jumped forward to investigate, sniffing around the place.

"Are you sure?" Clark asked, probably hoping that he was mistaken. "Man," she continued after a moment of realization. "Someone took it. This mess just keeps getting better and better by the minute. What are we going to do now?"

Assuming that the wagon was long gone, Kyle's mind kicked in to motion, formulating and equally dismissing a few plans. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he almost didn't see Wolfy reach a nearby ledge and back away slowly, whimpering.

"What is it, boy?" Kyle called softly. If it were a terminator or anything else mechanical, the dog would already be steadily barking, but something was clearly bothering him nevertheless.

"It would be me, I assume," came a harsh, familiar voice. Kyle stilled, hoping Clark would do the same, as a dark and menacing man came out of the shadows. He was armed with a shotgun, much like Connor's, which was slung over his shoulder. He was even filthier than Kyle remembered, but that was never saying much out here.

"Kaezar?" Kyle said questioningly as the old trader's body came completely into view.

"Do I know you, kid?" he asked roughly, narrowing his eyes as if inspecting the two children.

"You dealt in my bunker, you–" Kyle began.

"Yeah, right, the pink thing," Kaezar interrupted, motioning towards the handkerchief still decorating Clark's head. "You gave it to your girlfriend. Cute." Despite the words, his voice held no amusement. Wolfy, now having returned to Kyle's side, took a venturous step forward. "And the mutt, who could forget the mutt?"

"Did you take our wagon?" Clark spoke up accusingly. She looked secure and demanding, but, having known her for as long as he did, Kyle could see the hints of fear in her voice.

"What, that old thing?" the trader asked mockingly. "Didn't look like you needed it anymore. If you wanted to keep it, you should have taken it with you."

"Look," Kyle said before Clark could react. "We are really glad to see you. One of our friends is hurt and we need to get back to the bunker. Can you help us?" Traders knew these fields almost as well as the salvagers. Home should be a quick ride away, as many of them usually had cars.

"Help you," Kaezar repeated, putting his left hand on his hip. "Nah, I don't think so." Kyle felt his throat tighten as Kaezar's men came out of the shadows one by one. "See, we had a little run in with Connor a few weeks back, and the bastard kicked us out. Since then we've been freelance. Literally."

The traders-turned-thieves surrounded them, closing in.

"Everything valuable we have is in this bag," Kyle admitted, taking the backpack off of his shoulder. He offered it out to the closest thief, holding it at arm's length.

"I'll keep that in mind," Kaezar said, but his man made no move to grab the pack. "Unfortunately, the most valuable thing you have is … well, you."

"What are you going to do to us?" Clark whimpered, no longer bothering to hide her fear.

"This and that," Kaezar said. "You'll see."

Kyle didn't hesitate in letting go of the bag and reaching for the knife still strapped to his side. One of the thieves came forward, aiming a gun directly at him and causing him to halt mid movement.

"Be smart," Kaezar warned as the barrel neared Kyle's face.

Kyle grunted angrily at his defeat, but dropped the knife all the same.

"Good," Kaezar said, smirking triumphantly. "Jim, tie 'em up."

"What about the other one, the one they said was injured?" another man asked as 'Jim' bound their hands with coarse twine.

Clark hissed as the rope cut into her flesh, but Kyle merely kept his angry gaze focused on Kaezar. Panic was pushing at the edges of his emotions, but he didn't let it take control. Fury was so much more useful in these sorts of situations. Not that he had ever found himself in quite this level of dire straights before.

"Leave him," Kaezar said. "We don't need no hurt kid slowing us down. Two's enough."

Jim yanked when the binds were done, drawing both of them forward in one swift pull. They stumbled and Clark almost fell, but they both managed to stay standing.

"Strong stock. Good. Let's go."

"Better and better," Kyle mumbled when he caught Clark's eye. She bit her lip, clearly trembling.

As the men began to leave, they followed immediately to keep slack on the ropes and their hands free from pain.

Ignoring the fear, the sheer panic and hopelessness, Kyle did his best to plot an escape.


	11. Dreams and Cold Reality

John tried not to worry. After all, it was against the very core of his nature; he was the cool kid, the boy with the motorcycle before anybody else even had a driver's license. Leading the resistance may have brought some extra responsibility, but it should (theoretically) never have kept him up at night. He lived life with ease. Took things in stride. Let it slide off him like water off a duck's back.

Yeah, right.

And now, piled on top of the loads of other duties, concerns, and fears was the fact that he hadn't seen either hide or hair of Kyle in the past three days. The boy may not have always visited him daily, but the bunker was small enough to spot him when John was walking to and from briefings.

He shouldn't have been worried. The boy could take care of himself. Missing him in the halls was probably a matter of coincidence. His hopefully accidental theft of the firearm was probably the reason why he hadn't stopped by. Perhaps he thought John would be angry with him, like any parent might be with a child. Or maybe there was a small chance that he had wanted the gun all along and was now biding his time until he found a way to keep it.

Who knew? Rationalizing and predicting Kyle's thought process, though, was sometimes like trying to pin the tail on the donkey when you were in California and the donkey was in Bulgaria. The incident with Perry had proven as much.

Yet, if Kyle was anything, he was steadfast and responsible. He hadn't been to this morning's training session, even though Perry hadn't been the one leading it. John had stuck to the shadows during his quick observation, not making his presence known, so it was unlikely that Kyle had seen him there and had gotten spooked away.

What was worse: neither of the two other kids he usually hung around with was there either. Although he rarely spoke of them, their constant companionship with Kyle had shown that the three worked together closely, if they were not friends.

If something happened to Kyle, his friends would probably report it. Unless something had happened to all of them.

John slammed the cover of the manila envelope with considerably more force than necessary. The little tingles of worry prickling the back of his neck were starting to interfere with his work. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed to make sure Kyle was okay before he could focus on anything else.

Most of the orphans were asleep at this time of day, huddled in distinct groups that reminded John of middle school cliques. A few sentries were off on the periphery of the corridor and none of them paid John any mind as he slouched down to identify each child's dirty face.

He ignored the little scars and gashes that marred their faces, and the dried blood that managed to work its way between the strands of their hair. He couldn't save them all, he knew, at least not individually; he had to continue to believe that this war he was currently leading would eventually be their salvation, if they lived long enough to see it.

John could enjoy this train of reasoning, since it allowed him to justify the lavish attention he gave to Kyle above the rest of the children. He was the founder of the resistance, was he not? And he did need to be born in order to found the resistance, didn't he? Thus the life of his father, the life of Kyle, was far more important than the lives of the rest of these orphans.

He couldn't stop, though, the small pang of guilt he felt when he looked away, disappointed that they weren't Kyle.

His heart clenched when he finished inspecting the last group. Kyle wasn't here. Neither were his friends or his dog. He stood and, even though he was alone, his characteristically cool demeanor still didn't completely falter, despite the dizzying spin of his thoughts.

Where was he, then? An obvious question, but pretty much unanswerable at the moment. Although John was probably one of Kyle's closest confidants, it still didn't mean that he knew where the boy might be other than training or in the corridor. Children in these times weren't like the kids he grew up with – they didn't loiter around the mall or go over to a friend's. They stayed in the securest places they could find.

John was standing there in the middle of the corridor, puzzling out his options, and nearly didn't here the small voice calling to him from behind.

"Sir?"

He turned to see a lanky boy limping towards him. There was a brace covering his right ankle and he was currently using a rusty red pair of crutches for support. John may not have had his father's memory, but he recognized the kid easily enough. He was Kyle's friend.

"Did you find Reese and Clark?" the boy asked, hopeful, his eyes pleading.

"Find them?" John swallowed the lump in his throat.

"They didn't tell you?" The boy looked nervous for a moment and darted down his gaze when John shook his head. "A few days ago we were out scavenging. We got pinned by a mini-HK. I fell and hurt myself. Reese and Clark went to retrieve the stuff we left behind when we fled, but they didn't come back for me. One of the patrol scouts found me yesterday."

"And you filed a report with the …" John heard himself ask though the haze of fear his mind was wrapped in. He couldn't immediately recall the name of the resistance department for categorizing and organizing the missing persons lists. It was linked closely to the department that handled the death lists by his own terrible yet necessary design.

"Yes, Sir. The patrol officer did."

Nothing more needed to be said about how useful that would be. There was a list handed out to each of the sentries and scout soldiers of all the missing people and their last known location. The soldiers assigned to those areas would attempt to widen their personal area of patrol in hopes that they could spot the person in question. It hardly ever worked. The debris that lined the city combined with the fact that the machines were often responsible for the disappearance to begin with made tracking anyone down next to impossible.

The only true purpose the department served was to give people a small measure of hope for their missing loved ones, as Kyle's friend was clearly demonstrating. Hope was what the resistance ran on, and it was needed no matter how lost or small the cause was.

But Kyle wasn't exactly what John would consider a small cause. In fact his survival was vital. He was _Kyle_.

It would be simple enough. John could call a few men together – it didn't have to be a lot, one or two from each unit – and organize a complete search party. He could have them ready and out by dusk.

A small girl woke up behind Kyle's friend and blinked up at them. Her shaggy hair framed and webbed over her face as she stared at John in wide-eyed recognition and wonder. She gasped and caused the others to stir, and soon the entire camp of orphans was silently marveling at the great John Connor in their midst.

"Are you going to send someone to help him?" Kyle's friend asked, either oblivious to or ignoring the waking children. John, however, found his eyes locked upon the young girl's gaze. She seemed to be studying him, sharp and curious. "He is your, well, you know …" Kyle's friend continued after a beat, his voice holding even less confidence than before. If John had been watching him, he would have noticed the boy's focal point fixed solely, dejectedly, on his worn out shoes.

But his attention remained on the girl, and was disturbed if not surprised by the brief flash of envy that filtered through her eyes. It remained for a mere moment, but it was enough to make him swallow roughly. It was an expression mirroring Perry's from the other day – respect marred by jealousy.

So the rumors had spread this far, even.

"No, it'll run through standard procedure," he felt himself saying even as a part of his soul screamed out against it. He would be the leader this time. The selfless leader. It was the rational course of action – if he helped Kyle, the rumor that they had some sort of relationship would become valid and true. He couldn't undermine Kate's honor or his own integrity; the resistance needed its commanders strong and unblemished. It was for Kyle's safety, as well; what would the machines – or even unscrupulous people - do if they found that John Connor had a son?

Plus, if Kyle was going to be sent back in time in 2029, he would have to be alive at that point. To the best of his knowledge, John hadn't done anything to change the timeline, so Reese – the Reese that fathered him, that is – must have somehow survived this. If there were a change that could or would cause Kyle's death that John wasn't aware of, he wouldn't grow up nor be sent back to 1984. John wouldn't have been born and wouldn't have rescued Kyle from a certain death at the camp. Since John was still in existence and Kyle was still alive, he could assume that the past hadn't been altered from the original timeline. Thus Kyle was safe.

The girl, perhaps catching his bewildered frown and creased forehead, turned away and laid back down. Kyle's friend, not bothering to spare John another glance, hobbled over to the nearest wall and slid onto the ground, preparing to sleep.

John fought the urge to sigh. His shotty _Back to the Future_ logic wasn't making him feel better. It rarely did anyway, but in this case the knots of apprehension gathering throughout his body made even his shaky walking near impossible.

He had to trust in Fate yet again. Perhaps he was being greedy, but Fate didn't seem nearly good enough.

* * *

"_What we make for ourselves."_

_Kyle blinked. His pupils burned and he forced his eyes to shut against the blinding white glare. He waited nearly a full minute before opening them again and adjusting to the bright light._

_His vision cleared, and, through the remainder of the cloudiness, he began to make out clear shapes, colors – red, brown, and blue. Red in wisps upon the rocks, brown in the miles of sand that stretched before him, and blue in the wide blanket of sky that encompassed it all._

_He was out in the open on a warm Spring day. His first instinct was to run, to hide before the machines could find him, but the idea was quickly quelled. He was in no danger here, he knew it like he knew that it was Spring, although he had never felt a season before. Never mind that places like this didn't exist anymore beyond a few stray pictures and the memories of the old._

_"No Fate," a soft voice said. "I don't think he was right."_

_Kyle whirled around towards the sound and came face to face with none other than Sarah Connor. She was dressed in her same blue jumper, with a pink headband tied around her forehead. She sat on a bench at a wooden table, looking past him in seemingly deep contemplation – much like she had in the photograph. Kyle was beginning to wonder if his mind had conjured up the picture from memory, when her gaze shifted to look directly at him._

_He jumped slightly as her soft eyes pierced his, analyzing and accepting him all in one glance._

_"I thought it was the drugs," she told him._

_"Am I dreaming?" Kyle asked, bewildered and uncomprehending her words._

_"I think so, yes," she said. She folded her hands on the table and looked almost nervous._

_"Where am I?" He dared to take his eyes away Sarah's see the surrounding area._

_"Calexico, near the Mexican boarder," she answered promptly but did not mirror his wonderment. Instead she kept her gaze firmly fixed on his face. Normally being stared at caused Kyle to become uncomfortable at best and annoyed at worst, but Sarah's gaze only made his cheeks blush and his stomach flutter. "But you tell me. You're making most of this up."_

_Kyle tilted his head in confusion until she pointed to a spot in the distance. He squinted, following the line of her finger until he saw the familiar outline of a young John Connor resting on a rock. With a smile on his face but otherwise motionless._

_"You're drawing on the pictures John showed you to create this," Sarah explained patiently. "It's beautiful, Kyle. I only wish you could have seen it for real." She looked down at the table, that same sad expression filling her. "Well, you created everything but this," she amended, fingering a carving on the table, the words of which Kyle could not make out._

_He moved forward to read it, but Sarah blocked it with her hand._

_"What does it say?" he asked, knowing that she had covered it intentionally but letting curiosity get the better of him anyway._

_"It isn't important; it's just a reminder."_

_"How am I supposed to remember if I don't know what it is?"_

_She smiled at this. "Not for you; for me."_

_"But aren't you my dream?"_

_"The answer to that question isn't so easy. I don't know. You never told me and I can't figure it out." She stood up without further explanation and silently walked towards him, standing in between him and the bench. Her skirt shifted in the wind, dancing along with the uplifted grains of sand. She paused an arm's length away and, reaching out, cupped his cheek with one hand. Captivated, he didn't think to flinch away. "Maybe it's just a gift. I get to see you again."_

_"But we haven't met before," Kyle insisted when she let her hand drop. Despite the warm air, his face felt cold at the loss of contact._

_"I want to tell you – no, I have to tell you," she said, ignoring his last statement. "You need to survive. You need to fight. You can't give up. Not when you wake up, not any time in the future." He opened his mouth to speak, but she continued. "I know what awaits you, but you can beat it. Consider this dream a break from the nightmares that haunt your sleep. Let it refresh you, give you strength for the fight tomorrow."_

_"Tomorrow?" he asked dumbly. He had no escape even remotely devised._

_"Tomorrow," she confirmed. "It has to be tomorrow." A moment of silence passed between them – one of confusion for Kyle but of peace for Sarah. "Good luck, kiddo."_

_She stepped back to return to her bench and immediately Kyle knew that his dream was coming to an end._

_"Will I ever see you again?" he asked desperately as she sat._

_She smiled and fingered a nearby knife. "Oh, yeah. But it'll be a while."_


	12. Escape

Kyle awoke with a start. His muscles ached in retort to the sudden movement, stinging down to his bones. But, unlike the times he had nightmares, his mind was calmed, and his skin dry and cool.

He ventured forth an open eyelid, and his pupil easily adjusted to the dim afternoon sunlight streaming through the shack. The orange-red rays were filtered through holes – some the size of a finger, others barely a pinprick – in the mishmash ceiling, illuminating the specks of dust as they floated up from the dirt floor.

Kyle breathed wearily and hissed on the exhale. His wrists, bound together still with the coarse, thin twine, burned even at the slight movement of drawing air. Days of confinement had taken their toll on his skin: the twine cut so deeply that rope and flesh were hardly distinguishable from one another anymore.

A familiar sob broke the silence, and Kyle dared to glance over from his supine position to regard Clark. Her pink handkerchief gone, her expression hollow, tears streaking the only clean path across her cheeks – there seemed to be so little left of the emotionally vacillating preteen. Her eyes now, usually full of life, mirrored nothing but vacant pain.

Someone was coming in from the other room. In the first few days, one or two of them had stayed up to guard against the Seekers and to make sure Kyle and Clark didn't cause any trouble. But now they either felt this location was safe or they figured that the kids weren't stupid enough to attempt escape.

Although when a situation became desperate enough, the line between stupid and necessary was little more than a blur.

It was Jim; Kyle could tell because he favored a pair of pre-Judgment Day army camouflage fatigues over the denim jeans that the others wore. Whether or not he was ever actually in the army was anyone's guess. Kyle didn't know, but he sincerely doubted it, especially if the soldiers back before the machines were anything like Connor's men. If he had been, though, and was a typical recruit? Well, it wouldn't be much wonder that the first wave of attacks was so successful, with men like him guarding things.

Clark's reaction wasn't quite so analytical. She drew in a fearful breath, her exhale a sharp and loud hiss. Kyle felt her movements against him, as closely as they were bound, and wondered if the ropes chaffed her as badly as they did him. Such were his scattered thoughts, little to focus on and time having dulled his fears.

Wolfy was the only one who dared to make a noise as Jim approached, a low and dark growl that a machine would never associate with humans. Clark's weeping – as human as anything could be – remained silent. They had all been careful; the machines would have no reason to track them.

Jim bent over in a half crouch, half slouch and began to free Clark's bonds, right on time for their daily ritual. Clark, at first, had nearly screamed in protest, but as the days wore on she had either feared for her life above the pain or she had just learned to accept it.

Sometimes they would make Kyle watch – if the camp was too small to have adequate divisions – but he wasn't under the impression that they did it to punish him so much as to fulfill their immediate urges. He wasn't entirely even sure what they actually wanted him for. His mind was unable to conjure up a fate worse than Clark's, so he had stopped trying before he could force himself to get _too _creative.

Clark brushed against him, her small body quivering, and he decided that he couldn't see her suffer through yet another day.

He kicked Jim in the shin. Not so hard that the man would lose his grip on the girl, but enough to shake his balance and cause his knee to tip down into the ground's soft sand. The exchange was silent, as agreed upon by unspoken rule. Jim made no grunt of pain as he went, Kyle uttered nothing as Jim's backhand connected with his face.

A slip of the hand later, and Jim rose, Clark was hefted to her feet, and Wolfy let out one last mournful whimper.

As they left, Kyle figured he had a minute or so before they started. He kicked at the pile of sand next to his foot, a mere inches from where Clark had laid and Jim had fallen earlier. The hilt of his hunting knife appeared, newly acquired the day before their capture, yet a familiar sight still.

Perhaps if Jim wasn't so attached to wearing fatigues twice the size he needed, he'd notice when things fell out of his pants' leg pocket.

Kyle deftly maneuvered, sliding himself to the floor and twisting around to reach the knife with the tips of his fingers. It was difficult to grab a hold of the hilt without cutting himself on the blade, since his hands were tied behind his back and he could not see what he was doing. But he had trained like this before under Connor's insistence – strange drills, he had thought at the time.

He both heard and felt the twine starting to singe. The rope loosened, giving him more free space in which to work. Wolfy raised his head knowingly, looking to help even though his leash wouldn't reach that far. When the last of the bonds were cut and he had freed himself completely, Kyle untied his dog as well. Wolfy licked his arm in a gentle, calm manner despite the obvious excitement his wagging tail would suggest.

Ever so silently, Kyle sorted through the mess of supplies that the traders always dumped in a pile next to him and Clark at the end of each night. Most of it stayed unsorted day after day, much to the traders' disadvantage, since even from his limited view point Kyle could see quite a few useful things peeking through the various bags.

He was looking for one particular useful thing right now, a very familiar, necessary one: Connor's nine millimeter. Despite how quick Jim was to relieve Kyle of his knife, he hadn't thought to check the kids' possessions for other weapons. Whether it was out of stupidity or belief that mere children wouldn't hold anything of interest, Kyle didn't know.

The gun only had two bullets in it, he reminded himself when he felt the rough grip slide into his palm. He would have to make them count. After clicking off the safety and checking to make sure a round was still loaded into the chamber, he clenched the knife in his other, free hand. He would most likely need both.

He was shaking as he stood: he could hear the soft rattle of the nine's casing in the otherwise dead quiet of the camp. Sweat pooled, too, at the base of his neck, mixing with the dirt and making him feel even worse. Practicing with the soldiers was one thing, destroying HKs another; preparing to kill a person being was quite something else entirely.

Still, he moved slowly, with all the sheath that had been hounded into him from the first day he had arrived at Connor's bunker. Wolfy remained close to his side, at the ready, as if he could sense the plan through his master's movements alone.

As he crossed the threshold between the two parts of the camp – a thin but opaque curtain – Kyle closed his eyes and thought of Sarah Connor. She was there, sad and thoughtful, lost in memories and oh-so beautiful. How Kyle wanted to join her at that moment in the calm peace of the warm desert, stilled to the world for the remainder of time.

He opened his eyes, the movement no more than a blink, and shot his first and closest target point blank. The crack of the discharge echoed through the small tent and beyond, and now everyone here was working with a time limit. The machines would descend upon them soon.

As ruthless as these men were, they were traders, not soldiers, and therefore possessed a remarkably slow reaction time. Kyle used that to his advantage, taking down Jim before he or Kaezer could even grab their weapons. The hit was direct, and Jim made only the softest of grunts as he fell to the floor and blood soaked those foolish fatigues.

Kyle aimed his now empty nine at the last man in the room, Kaezer, who was standing over the prone Clark and was also, unfortunately, completely armed. Kyle was willing to bet a month's rations that Kaezer wasn't at all bluffing about the shotgun being fully loaded.

"Let her go," Kyle demanded, voice steady despite the fear of a thousand things that were wrong or could go wrong with this plan. "They'll be coming soon. The only way you could possibly escape is to not take anyone with you. You can go your way, we'll go ours."

Kaezer let out a laugh that was more of a bark. "You little son of a bitch," he said, almost defeated. But some of the anger faded from his face after a moment, replaced with an almost hazy madness. "You're beautiful –" Kyle tensed at this, confused – "a true child of the revolution. A beautiful, war-bathed child of the revolution. I was an insurance adjuster – you don't even know what that is, _beautiful_ – I rejected people's claims. One time I got a death threat in the mail. A big, scary letter! Moved away to California. But I never knew real fear, true fear. Couldn't ever crawl through my veins until the revolution. But look at you, born into it. A part of it. Tell me, little boy, do you embrace it? Can you become the fear?"

"You're batshit, old man." He forced down a quake of fright when he felt the rumbling of an approaching full-sized HK.

"Can you die now for the fear? We're dead already, thanks to you." Kyle felt his throat tighten when Kaezer pumped his gun and pointed at Clark, who, mysteriously, barely reacted.

"No!" he cried, and Wolfy jumped into the fray, bitting deep into Kaezer's right arm and causing the shotgun's barrel to fly away from Clark. A scream and another shot rang out; Wolfy whimpered and Kyle hissed as he felt a pellet or two enter his right side.

Dropping the nine, Kyle rushed forward and buried his knife as far into Kaezer's chest as the hilt would allow. The man tumbled under his own weight, bringing the much lighter boy with him. The forgotten shotgun fell away harmlessly. Rolling away, Kyle contemplated stabbing him again just to be sure, until a slow gargle of blood from Kaezer's mouth stopped halfway, the breath no longer there to support it.

"Speak for yourself," Kyle mumbled not quite numbly, pulling the knife out and turning to cut Clark's bonds. "We gotta go," he told her hastily. She only stared at him, deadpan. She didn't even move her hands after they were freed. "C'mon, Clark." Grasping her shoulders, he shook her forcefully.

She blinked at him and her vision seemingly cleared. She didn't look completely all there yet, but Kyle took what he could get. He picked up the discarded shotgun and checked to find it only one round short of being full.

With a brief nod at Clark, Kyle rose back onto his feet. A streak of pain burned fire down every nerve in his leg, causing him to nearly stumble back down next to Kaezer's body. He breathed in deeply, letting the air out slowly, in an attempt to control the throbbing ache. Somehow he mustered the courage to look down.

It was bad – what was left of his pant leg was shredded and stained a deep, angry red. A handful of small wounds, not much more than grazes from individual pellets, oozed. He took the remainder of his jacket off and tied its arms around his leg in a makeshift bandage, hoping it would stop the bleeding along enough for him to walk.

Run, more rather.

"You gonna be okay?" Clark asked, but her voice didn't convey the usual hints of her motherly tone. It was more of an automated question, like something people realized that they had to ask, but never really cared for the answer.

Kyle nodded at her and tried to recapture her former zeal by giving her the smallest of reassuring smiles. She didn't respond like she normally would; instead, a half frown – determined and blank at the same time – graced her face. Kyle was beginning to miss the old Clark already.

Picking up only what the duo could carry, Kyle and Clark fled the camp as the HK prepared to raze it. There was a pile of melted debris that served as today's shelter, the impromptu door for which was little more than chucks of old drywall. Kyle pushed through it, Clark right behind him, and resisted the urge to cringe at the noise it made when it smacked against the ground – it was of no concern now.

He wasn't sure what hit him first, the wind from the hovering HK, the light from the sun, or the heat of the day, and he supposed it didn't really matter. Nausea rose in the pit of his stomach from the unfamiliar climate, and he swallowed in an attempt to push the bile back down his throat.

The machines locked onto them almost immediately, and a single T-200 came marching towards them, its steel body reflecting the sun's rays, blinding to humans. A slow fireball erupted behind them when the HK finished its task, and the camp was no more.

Kyle and Clark dodged and jumped through the rumble as they both broke out into as fast a run as their respective legs could give them, Kyle quickly falling a step, then two, then three behind. The terminator was taking aim, and then Kyle could soon feel the hot plasma rushing past his head.

There was a simple piece of shrapnel, invisible through the blotchy spots in Kyle's eyes, and he found himself tripping, tumbling down in an uncontrolled roll.

"Reese!" he could hear Clark scream, turning back for him.

"Split," he shouted. "Trace back." He was ordering her, just like it was any other night with a regular mini-HK. But this wasn't any other night, and there certainly wasn't mere seeker drones looking for him. And he usually wasn't shot, either. He had the distinct feeling that, when Clark circled back, she'd find no trace of him.

Well, he decided not to make it easy for them, then. Crawling on burning hands and knees, Kyle reached for Kaezer's shotgun. Gripping it as steadily as he could via shaking limbs, he aimed at the approaching sentinel. Attacking the torso would do no good: no way shotgun pellets could even hope to put a dent in the exoskeleton, let alone breech it enough to strike the vulnerable wiring underneath.

He fired at the machine's hands and arms, instead, where metal met the smooth casing of the M Twenty-Five. The terminators never had their weapons welded to their chaises like, say, a HK had mounted turrets. It was for efficiency's sake, some had theorized, so that damaged and spent rifles could be quickly replaced. But Kyle wasn't the first human to think that it made the bony, humanoid soldiers act a little too much like real people for comfort.

Kyle fired, over and over, not bothering to keep track of the numbers because he knew that shotguns could only hold maybe ten rounds at the most. The terminator kept up its charge as the bullets pelleted into it, even while the weapon it was holding was continuously knocked off its sight.

With a final shot, Kyle hit the M Twenty-Five's power pack, causing it to explode in a wave of fire and sparks. The terminator paused, as if confused by the burning pile of melted steel that used to be its rifle, before dropping it, freeing its now mangled hand.

The relief Kyle felt was palpable but short-lived; the machine kept coming towards him, intent on using its last remaining hand as a weapon. Wolfy, instinctively aware that the danger of being unintentionally injured in the crossfire had passed, attacked the terminator, gripping its intact arm in the full force of his jaw.

Kyle rose unsteadily to his feet, watching the battle with no small amount of horror. Unarmed though the machine was, Wolfy still didn't stand a chance. "Stop!" he cried, fruitlessly. When that dog had a goal in mind, even Kyle could do little to dissuade him.

He knew he should take advantage of the terminator's distraction and flee while Wolfy had given him the chance. But he found himself unable to move, unable to leave his dog. Wolfy was his best friend, a gift from Connor himself. Kyle knew he couldn't just sacrifice him like this. He imagined the disappointed expressions of the soldiers who had trained him – dying as he was for an _animal_ – but, surprisingly enough, his mental picture of Connor's face held nothing but pride.

He looked around for a pole, a bar, something to give the terminator a good smack. But, unfortunately, as it turned out, he didn't have the time to do anything. The T-200 freed itself and, taking the whole of Wolfy's weight in its good hand, it threw the dog away, like an annoyed man might a bad tool.

Wolfy landed in a nearby pile of scrap with a low whine.

Weaponless and too wounded to run fast enough, Kyle was left alone with the terminator. He managed to get a few steps, or so he thought, at least, before the hulking exoskeleton grabbed him by the neck.

A whoosh of of air left his lungs as his feet lifted off the ground. The dark spots that had haunted his vision since he had gone outside intensified twofold before morphing into a glaring white. He thought, then, of Sarah Connor's desert: the vivid sky, bright, but not burning like it was here, and the warmth of the breeze that was nothing like the heat currently burning through him.

He felt consciousness leaving with his breath, and, in the dizziness, he almost didn't hear the voice.

"Hey, toaster!" It was Clark. Kyle struggled to open his eyes long enough to confirm it.

There she was, pink bandanna waving triumphantly in the wind. The weathered look that had been with her since the night they were captured by the traders was gone, replaced by determination, the likes of which Kyle had never quite seen in her before. "Pick on someone who's got rocks!"

At that, Kyle heard the soft thud of a rock hitting the terminator's skull. It caught its attention well enough, and the boy in the terminator's grip was all but forgotten. Before Kyle could even speak, even order Clark to retreat, to not bother, he felt himself sailing away and landing next to Wolfy in the rubbish heap.

His vision blurred, and he could roughly make out trough the sharp pain in his head two Clarks running sideways and two T-200s following, equally vertical. He blinked, trying to interpret what he was seeing, hoping he could get with it soon enough to help Clark. But his stomach was quickly dropping into his knees and his heart found a way to fill the hole his stomach had left right after. The white spots turned black again and filled his line of sight completely.

Before he could shake the feeling off, darkness greeted him.


	13. Adulthood

"We got a live one, here!"

It didn't remotely resemble a bark, Kyle recognized in the back of his mind, but he still swiped his arm out in a signal for Wolfy to quiet. His head still pounded, continued to pound insistently, and noises – any noise, including his dog's – found a way to personally rip through every nerve attached to his brain.

"It's a kid!" someone shouted. "The dog is with a kid! Sir, come look at this!"

The debris around him shifted underneath a moving weight, much too heavy to be Wolfy, much too light to be a terminator. Kyle opened his eyes slowly.

There were focused, direct beams of light, he realized – spotlights: it was night.

He had to blink a few times for the blur around the edges of the face in front of him to straighten out, which revealed the unmistakably feminine features of a older woman. She was smiling at him sympathetically.

"Hi, sweetie," she said calmly. "You're a little hurt, but you're going to be okay. You're safe now." She laughed a little when Wolfy gladly licked her elbow and attempted to sit in her lap. All Kyle could do was slightly nod, relieved beyond reason after recognizing her Resistance uniform.

She looked familiar otherwise, but his hazy mind could quite recall where he had seen her before.

"What's you're name, honey?" she asked, touching his forehead gently.

"Reese, Kyle Reese."

Her expression changed from boring saccharin to confused and back to something equally kind but far more genuine. Her smile widened, her eyes gave a little sparkle.

"I'm Kate Brewster."

* * *

He felt her fingers intertwine with his hair before she even said anything. He sighed and leaned against her, not bothering to take his eyes off the boy because he knew she was looking at him, too.

"He's about what I expected," Kate admitted as her hand worked down to his neck, massaging it gently.

John finally turned his gaze onto hers. "Really?"

Kyle was lying on a medical bunk several yards away, a crude IV pump hooked to his side administering both fluids and antibiotics. The doctor hadn't hesitated to diagnosed sepsis when he was first bought in, but, although critical, his life could still be saved. There were a few days of uncertainty, when the fever raged unchecked despite the coldpacks they kept applying.

Kate had done John the favor of keeping updated on Kyle's status, even staying by his bedside when she could find the free time. This not only helped ease John's anxiety quite a bit, but it also had the unexpected yet welcome side effect of confuting many of the rumors circling around John and Kyle's relationship, if not halting them completely.

"He's a survivor, a fighter," she said softly, "like someone else I know." After giving John a warm smile, returned her eyes to Kyle. "He kept asking about the young girl he was traveling with. We didn't find her." She reached out with her free hand to grab his.

John could barely make out Kyle's expression from this distance; he was speaking in low tones to his friend while Wolfy sat obediently with his head on Kyle's lap. The other boy held an air of false cheerfulness, easy to see through even from this far away, that Kyle didn't bother to respond to. He kept his head low, looking somewhere between his friend and his dog but actually fixing his gaze on nothing permanently. His face was kept purposefully emotionless, as if burying anything he was feeling, hiding it from the whole of the world. John had the distinct, sinking realization that he would be seeing quite a bit fewer of Kyle's unguarded smiles from now on out.

"What did you tell him?" he asked.

"Nothing; I'm – I've never been very good at that," she said and then sighed, finally leaning her head on his shoulder. "I'll probably be crying before he is."

"He won't cry. He never does."

"Poor kid," Kate said sadly, her voice muffled by his shirt.

"I'll tell him," John said, burying his face in Kate's hair. He imagined the look Kyle would give him – the smallest hint of pain, the lightest touch of grief, before the unbreakable facade of stoicism took control again. Those slight glimpses of humanity, ever so brief as they were, were the key. They would always have to be there, in him. His mother wouldn't love Reese without them, of course, but neither would Kyle be Kyle without them. The boy was an unmistakable mix of inflexible determination and willowy heart. He needed both, and so he had always been both. For Sarah, for John, and, someday, for the men he would lead.

"I love him," he blurted out suddenly. He had wanted to say that for so long, but there had been no one to say it to. Not his men, certainty not Kyle. The implication had been there when he had sent Kate his personal, encrypted messages, but even then he could not specify the exactness of Kyle's identity or his feelings on it for fear of putting the boy in harm's way. He could only trust that Kate would read between the lines and discern his thoughts from his broken words.

She obviously had. "Of course you do. He's your father." He smiled at that, despite it all. It was a good feeling, to have it all out there in the open, even for just this moment. He had lived with the secret his whole life, and told it to so few. Something about him saying it, and her confirming it, made it all real, shutting away his childhood pain and loneliness in favor of an odd kind of acceptance.

He kissed the top of Kate's head and held her tight.

* * *

He turned fifteen today. Well, at least he had or would on a day close to this one. His parents had always celebrated his birthday over a range of days when he was with them. Whether it was because they were unsure of the exact day on which he was born or because they never for sure knew what day it was currently, Kyle didn't know. When he had first entered Connor's bunker, the Registrar hadn't even bothered to ask for the day, only the month and the year, so not knowing the day had never proved a problem.

And now the Resistance recruiter was making his rounds and Kyle's month and year finally matched up with the age minimum. His new dog tags, for convenience sake, listed today's date as his birthday, so today he officially turned fifteen. Which was perfectly acceptable to him.

He strolled along the hallways, proudly displaying his gray-blue uniform. The newly assigned plasma rifle, a device which, up until the past year or so, had been almost unusably heavy, was slung comfortably over his shoulder.

Wolfy was walking at his side, willingly leashed for the first time in his life. Perry said the dog would be an asset and so allowed Kyle to keep him provided that he kept him under some method of obvious control. A leash seemed to be the only thing that really met that requirement. Wolfy didn't seem to care one way or another.

Kyle stopped hesitantly at the familiar alcove where John Connor had his quarters. The tattered curtain was tied back, signaling that the General was in and available. There had always been a slight sense of formality between them despite how much Connor had looked after him. Kyle knew he was welcome here, though, even if he did feel the need to augment his sentences with "Sir" more often than probably should be necessary.

But now things were changing. He wasn't a kid anymore; he couldn't just go in there and ask for a book or a weapons lesson. He was a soldier, and Connor was his commanding officer. For some reason that thought made him nervous, like Connor would look at him differently or expect something more from him than he could give. He had always wanted to make Connor proud, and this was surely the way to do it, yet the nagging fear remained. What if he failed?

Connor was sitting at his desk, starring intently at some papers, completely absorbed in them. Kyle slowly made a few steps to cross over the threshold as quietly as possible. Connor's eyes flicked up, noticing a presence, but clearly not seeing who it actually was. This confusion wasn't helped when Kyle belatedly remembered that he had to salute a commanding officer while they were both in uniform.

Kyle stood there, fully at attention, until Connor gave a half mumbled, "At ease, soldier. Give me a second."

Kyle felt like an idiot as he nervously deflated. Connor didn't recognize him, and he wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing. Unfortunately, Wolfy wasn't too keen on waiting any longer and, with a quick and sharp wiggle of his neck, was out of his new collar and jumping up on the desk.

Papers flew every which direction, and Connor bolted back in surprise. Kyle would have found look on his face funny, he supposed, if he weren't so embarrassed by his inability to keep Wolfy in check.

Connor wasn't mad, though – Connor hardly ever got mad. Instead, he patted the dog on the head affectionately before finally looking up.

His expression rivaled his earlier surprise tenfold.

"Kyle?" he asked.

Kyle's throat tightened. He had never heard Connor use his first name before. Not sure what to made of it, he attempted a nod and a really pathetic smile that probably came out as more of a grimace.

Connor stood up slowly and walked around towards him. Wolfy scrambled off the desk to join them, knocking what remnants of stationary there were clean off.

"It suits you," Connor said flatly, giving him a good once over. Kyle felt a blush rise to his cheeks at the attention, and he gripped the now empty dog leash a little harder.

"Thank you, sir," he replied, although he was not entirely sure it was a compliment.

"You're all signed up, then?"

Kyle nodded at that, worried. Connor wasn't known for asking obvious or rhetorical questions. But the man looked almost _distracted_ ... and pained.

"Good," Connor said more forcefully than needed, clasping his hands behind his back defensively. "You're sure, then?"

This was not how Kyle had expected this conversation to go. He remembered vaguely when Connor had asked that question before, when he had first told him that he wanted to be trained. The same look, the same displeasure, had appeared on Connor's face then, too. He hadn't said anything since – in fact, he had pushed him in every soldierly art imaginable – and Kyle had just assumed that Connor had merely been in a strange mood that particular day.

"This is who I was meant to be," Kyle said. He wasn't sure where the words had come from, if they came from him at all. His voice sounded so mature then, as if something else, something bigger than he himself was, had spoken for him and through him. He had meant to comfort Connor, to reassure him, but he wasn't sure exactly how or why. He didn't even know if it would work until some of the furrows in Connor's brow lifted.

"Under Perry, then?" Connor finally asked, softly.

"Under Perry," Kyle confirmed. "In New Mexico." His heart tugged a little at leaving what had become his childhood home. He would have Wolfy and his best friend Jacobson, though, and that would have to be enough. Perry was going to be a familiar presence, too, and the man had mostly forgiven him after the infamous knife incident.

"Right." Connor sighed and turned away from him, walking towards the makeshift mantel. There he picked up one of the photographs. "I want you to take this."

In his confusion, Kyle couldn't find the urge to look away from Connor's weary eyes until the picture was nearly thrust into his hand. He looked down to find the star-crossed gaze of young Sarah Connor - not looking back at him, but at the forever-indefinable netherworld.

His mouth dropped open to offer thanks, to ask why, to refuse such a precious gift, but nothing came out. His voice was choked, and it was enough just to breathe.

"It's oh-seventeen hundred, soldier," Connor reminded him after a beat or two. "Isn't Perry's group scheduled to ship out soon?"

"Yeah," Kyle responded dumbly, not taking his eyes off the photo.

"Better get going, then." Kyle looked up to nod, and then Connor did something strange: he patted him on the shoulder with a fondness that Kyle had never really seen him express to anyone outside of Kate Brewster. His smile, too, was genuine, if mirroring his mother's sadness.

Before Kyle could speak again, he found himself being shooed out of the room. He turned to say something, anything in what could very well be the last time he saw Connor, but, before he could think of something appropriately profound, a hand grabbed his elbow.

"C'mon, Reese! We'll be late!" Jacobson nearly yelled and started dragging him along. "Get the dog back on the leash!"

He had to turn to face forward before he fell and, after the moment of disorientation passed, he took one last backwards glance at Connor. The man gave him surprising goofy wave before returning to his quarters, dropping the curtain behind him.

_I'll see him again_. It was more of a promise – a certainty – than a thought. He didn't know how he knew it, and he didn't think to question it. It was Fate, he decided – a realization he, until this very day, had never found so appealing.

When the rush of emotions and movements passed, a wave of calm understanding went through him. He was focused; he was ready. A group of young kids, whom he would have called his compatriots not but a day earlier, looked on at the gathering new recruits with something akin to respect rather than envy.

He favored them with a small smile, but it wasn't the expression one child would give another. It was patronizing without the condescendence, parental without the affection. Kyle didn't quite know the word for it, but he knew what it meant.

Turning away, he allowed his smile to widen. Clasping a friendly arm around Jacobson's shoulders, he marched with him towards the rest of the soldiers and, finally, towards adulthood.

* * *

**Author's note: **Thanks for reading!


End file.
